LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

ESTATE  OF 
HUBERT      ORRISS 


DE  WITT'S  ACTING  EDITION. 

Bulwee's  Plays 


BEING  THE 


COMPLETE  DRAMATIC  WORKS 


LORD   LYTTON, 

(SIK   EDWARD   LYTTON   BULWEB,    BABT.) 


COMPRISING 


THE  LADY  OF  LYONS. 

MONEY. 

RICHELIEU. 


THE  RIGHTFUL  HEIR. 

WALPOLE. 

NOT  SO  BAD  AS  WE  SEEM. 


THE  DUCHESS  DE  LA  VALLIERE. 

FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  TEXT,  AS  PRODUCED  UNDER  THE  SUPERVISION 
OF  THE  AUTHOR  AND  MR.  MACREADY. 

fen  ^ntirely  New  ^cting  ^dition. 


WITH  ADDITIONAL  STAGE   DIRECTIONS,  ACCURATELY  MARKED— FULL  CAST  OF 
CHARACTERS — SYNOPSIS  OF  SCENERY — COSTUMES — BILL  FOR  PRO- 
GRAMMES—STORY   OF  THE  PLAY,   AND   REMARKS. 

EDITED 

By  JOHN  M.  KINGDOM, 

Author  of  "  Marcoretli,"  "The   Fountain  of  Beauty,"  "A  Li/t't   Vengeance," 
"  Tancred,"  etc. 


NEW    YORK: 

ROBERT    M.    DE    WITT,    PUBLISHER, 

No.  33  Rose  Street. 

(BETWEEN  DUANE  AND  FRANKFORT  STREETS.) 

Copyright,  1875,  by  Robert  M.  De  Witt. 


THE  LADY  OF  LYONS. 


Copyright,  1875,  by  Robert  M.  De  Witt. 


2 


THK    LADY    OF    LYONS. 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

Theatre  Royal,  Covent 
Garden,  Loudon,  1838. 

Claude  Melnotte Mr.  Macready. 

Colonel  Damas Mr.  Barti.ey. 

Bsauseant Mr.  Elton. 

Glavis Mr.  Meadows. 

Mons.  Deschappelles Mr.  Stkickland. 

Landlord Mr.  Yarnold. 

Gaspar Mr.  Didde a  r. 

Captain  Gervais  (1st  Officer) Mr.  Howe. 

Captain  Dupont  (2d  Officer) Mr.  Pritchard. 

Major  Desmoulins  (3d  Officer) Mr.  .Roberts. 

Notary Mr.  Harris. 

Servant Mr.  Bender. 

Pauline Miss  Helen  Faucit. 

Madame  Deschappelles Mrs.  Clifford. 

Widow  Melnotte Mrs.  Griffiths. 

Janet Mrs.  East. 

Marian Miss  Garrick. 


Old  Park  Theatre, 
May  14,  1838. 

Mr.  Edwin  Forrest. 

Mr.  Placide. 

Mr.  Richikgs. 

Mr.  Wu.  Wheatley. 

Mr.  Clarke. 


Mrs.  Richardson. 
Mrs.  Wheatley. 
Miss  Cushman. 


TIME  IN  REPKESENTATION— THREE  HOURS. 


SCENERY. 


The  scene  is  laid  in  France,  in  the  city  of  Lyons  and  the  neighborhood,  during  the. 
period  of  1795  to  1798 
ACT  I.,  Scene  7.— Room  in  the  house  of  M.  Deschappelles  at  Lyons. 
Garden  scene  background. 

..  |  Window.  |  .. 

4th  Groove.  4th  Groove. 


r.  2  e. 


Sofa. 
*  Table. 


Chair  *  O 
Table. 


*  Chair.  l.  2  e. 


The  flats  in  the  4th  grooves  represent  one  side  of  a  handsomely  furnished  room ;  in 
the  centre  a  large  window,  open,  beyond  which  are  beautiful  gardens.  The  wings 
correspond  with  the  room.  A  rich  sofa  placed  in  an  oblique  direction,  r.  C.  Near 
r.  2  e.  a  small  table,  r.  h.  of  sofa,  with  notes,  letters,  and  bouquet  of  flowers  in 
vase  upon  it.     Rich  table  and  chairs,  L.  c. 

(Scene  //.—Exterior  of  a  small  village  inn,  in  the  2d  grooves.    The  left  half  of  the 


THE    LADT    OF    LYONS. 


scene  represents  a  portion  of  the  inn  ;  casement  and  practicable  door  ;  above  it  13 
painted  the  sign  of  the  inn,  "  The  Golden  Lion  ; "  the  right  half  of  the  scene  repre- 
sents open  country,  with  the  city  of  Lyons  in  the  distance;  a  working  moon  to  be 
used  in  Act  HI.  but  not  in  this  scene. 

Scene  111.— Interior  of  the  Widow  Melnotte's  cottage. 

4th  Groove. ..  |  Window.  |  . .  |  Door.  | ith  Groove. 


Stairs. 


B    3E."| 

I 


Mantel- 
R.  2  e.        piece. 


Table. 


Easel. 


Chair. 


Chair. 


Door. 

L.  -I  E. 


L.   1   E. 


In  the  4th  grooves  the  flat  represents  one  side  of  a  neat  and  homely  cottage. 
R.  u.  e.  a  flight  of  stairs,  projecting  some  distance  on  the  stage,  leading  to  the  upptr 
rooms.  Door  l.  f.  Practicable  lattice  window,  c.  f.,  with  curtains  drawn  b.icK. 
Door  l.  h.,  between  2  E.  and  3  e.  Painter's  easel  with  pictures  upon  it,  brushes,  etc., 
placed  c,  in  a  slanting  direction  towards  the  window,  covered  by  a  curtain. 
Chairs  l.  c.  and  r.  c— plain  oaken  chairs.  Mantel-piece  r.  h.,  between  2  e.  and  3 
e.,  and  over  it,  fencing  foils,  crossed.  Flowers  on  the  mantel-piece  and  at  the  win- 
dow, through  which  flower  garden  is  seen;  underneath  the  window  an  oaken  table 
with  guitar  and  portfolio  upon  it.     Everything  has  a  neat  and  clean  appearance. 

ACT  II., Scene  /.—The  gardens  of  M.  Deschappelles'  house  at  Lyons.  The  flats 
placed  in  the  4th  grooves  represent  beautiful  gardens.  Wings  11.  H.,  to  correspond. 
From  l.  s.  e.  up  to  the  flats  a  portion  of  the  house  is  shown,  and  another  portion 
in  continuation,  l.  h.  f.,  with  entrance  -ways  l.  3  e.  and  l.  u.  e. 

A  CT  111.,  Scene  /.—Exterior  of  the  Golden  Lion  Inn.  Same  as  Scene  II.,  Act  I., 
only  that  it  is  now  evening  and  the  moon  rises  during  the  progress  of  the  business 
of  the  Scene. 

Scene  //.—Interior  of  the  Widow  Melnotte's  cottage,  as  before. 
Window.      Door. 


4th  Groove.- 


Stairs. 
3e. 


I 4th  Groove. 

Chair. 

*     L.  3  E. 


B.  2  e. 


Table. 


f  Chair. 


Door. 


Mantel- 
piece. 


r.  1  E. 


■l.  2.  E. 


l.  1  E. 


In  the  4th  grooves  one  side  of  the  apartment  as  before,  but  the  window  curtains  are 
drawn.  A  ch_air  between  the  door  and  window,  another  L.  u.  u.  E.  A  table  c,  with 
cloth,  plates,  etc.,  spread  for  supper.  Candlestick  and  lighted  candle.  A  chair  on 
either  side,  r.  c.  and  l.  c. 

ACT  IV.,  See  ne  /.— Same  as  the  last,  but  the  cloth  and  supper  things  have  leen 
removed  and  in  their  place  writing  materials  ;  the  candle  remains. 

ACT  V.,  Scene  /.—A  street  in  Lyons.    The  old  French  style  of  houses,  in  2d  grooves 


4  TDK    LADY    OF    LYONS. 

Scene  //.—Room  in  the  house  of  M.  Deschappelles— as  before,  but  not  so  rich- 
ly furnished. 

4th  Groove |       I !       I *tb  tiroove. 

Window.      Door. 

B.  3  E.  L-  3  B. 

Chair.* 

Chair.* 

n.  2  e.  :••:  l.  2  e. 

:     :  Chair.* 

Table. 
k.  1  e.  Chair.*  l.  1  e. 


In  the  4th  grooves  the  scene  represents  the  side  of  the  apartment.  "Window,  c.  f., 
garden  beyond.  D.  l.  f.  A  table  and  chairs  e.  c,  with  writing  materials  upon  it. 
Chairs  l.  2  e.  and  l.  v.  e. 


COSTUMES. 


Claude  Melnotte.— Act  J.— Loose  blouse,  blue,  with  waist  belt,  cap,  and  loose, 
light  trousers,  and  shoes — but  all  of  good  quality.  Act  II. — Dark  green  coat 
with  broad  facings,  broad  black  braid  across  breast  and  cuffs ;  knee  breeches, 
dark  silk  stockings,  shoes  and  buckles,  black  hat,  turned  up  with  a  side  loop. 
Act  ///.^-Same  with  the  addition  of  a  cloak.  Act  1\— Blue  military  coat  with 
broad  tails,  broad  lappels  faced  with  white  and  trimmed  with  lace,  and  also 
cuffs,  epaulettes;  white  small  clothes  and  knee  boots  fitting  to  leg,  belt  and  tri- 
colored  sash,  and  sword,  three-cornered  hat  with  tri-colored  knot.  Moustache  ; 
complexion  bronzed,  and  military  cloak. 

Colonel  Dajias. — Act  I. — Blue  coat  and  vest,  trimmed  with  lace,  broad  lappels  and 
cuffs,  dark  pantaloons  and  tight  boots  ;  tri-colored  knot  on  three-cornered  hat. 
Act  V. — Similar  dress  to  Claude's,  with  the  exception  of  the  cloak. 

Beauseant. — Act  I. — Dark  claret-colored  coat,  reaching  to  the  knee,  broad  lappels 
and  facings  braided,  and  also  on  the  cuffs ;  pantaloons  and  high  boots,  after  the 
Hessian  style,  fitting  close  to  the  leg ;  three-cornered  hat  with  tri-color.  Act  V. 
— Similar  kind  of  coat,  'white  knee-breeches,  stockings,  and  shoes  with  buckles  ; 
three-cornered  hat  and  rosette. 

Glavis.— Act  I. — Similar  to  Beatjseant's,  but  not  quite  so  good  in  appearance. 

Mons.  Deschappelles. — Act  I. — Dark  gray  surtout  coat,  reaching  to  the  knees, 
broad  lappels,  silk  facings  and  braid,  as  also  on  cuffs,  knee-breeches,  three-cor- 
nered hat  and  rosette.     Act  V. — A  similar  dress,  but  rather  mean  in  appearance. 

landlord.— Blue  blouse,  loose  breeches,  and  gaiters,  white  apron,  and  half  sleeves, 
white,  from  wrist  to  elbow. 

Gasp ar.— Coarse  blouse  or  short  jacket,  wide  trousers,  shoes,  and  cap  of  liberty. 

/  Similar  dresses  to  Col.  Damas,  but  not  so  heavily  orna- 
Capt.  Dupont.  >  .      ,       .  ' 

_.  V  mented  or  rich  looking. 

Major  Desmotjlins.    j 

Notary. — Black  stuff  gown,  fastened  round  the  waist  and  reaching  nearly  to  the  feet, 
skull  cap  with  broad  top,  black  pantaloons,  stockings  and  shoes. 

Servants.— Similar  to  Gasper. 

Pauline.— Act.  /.—Rich  silk  dress  (any  color),  high  waisted,  arms  bare,  lace  shawl 
or  scarf  over  shoulders,  rose  in  hair,  which  is  worn  plain,  small  bonnet.  Act  11. 
—Similar  costume,  but  of  different  material.  Act  V.—  Plain  dark  dress,  meaner 
ia  appearance  than  before,  edged  with  white  trimmings,  neck  and  sleeves. 


THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  5 

Madame  Deschappelles.—  Act  /.—Rich  green  silk  dress,  trimmed  with  lace,  small 
bonnet,  black  lace  scarf.  Act  V.— Plain  black  dress,  moderately  trimmed  with 
lace. 

Widow  Me lnotte.— Plain  brown  stuff  dress,  neat  white  cap  and  apron,  shoes  with 
buckles 

Janet.       )  Dresses  of  plain  materials,  white  caps  and  aprons,  blue  stockings  and 

Marian.   \  shoes. 


PROPERTIES. 


ACT  I.,  Scene.  1.— Eich  sofa;  two  tables;  three  or  four  chairs ;  bouquet  of  flowers 
in  vase  ;  letters  and  notes.  Scene  2.— A  bill  of  fare.  Scene  3.— An  old-fashioned 
oaken  table ;  portfolio ;  guitar ;  painter's  easel  ;  brushes  and  palette  ;  painting 
on  it  of  a  female  bust,  covered  by  a  curtain  ;  two  or  three  vases  of  flowers  in  the 
latticed  window  and  on  the  mantel-piece ;  two  old-fashioned  chairs ;  rifle  for 
Claude  ;  letters  for  Gaspab  and  Beausbant's  servant. 

ACT  II.,  Scene  1. — Fan  for  Mad.  Deschappelles;  diamond  ring  and  snuff-box  for 
Claude  ;  letters ;  two  swords. 

ACT  III.,  Scene  1. — Purse  with  money  for  Beauseant.  Scene  2. — Old-fashioned  oak 
table  ;  four  chairs  ;  tablecloth,  plates,  etc. ;  candle  and  candlestick. 

ACT  IV.,  Scene  1.— Same  as  last  scene,  except  that  the  cloth  and  plates  have  been 
removed  ;  writing  materials ;  pistol  for  Beauseant  ;  folded  paper  for  Claude. 

ACT  V.,  Scene  1, — Snuff-box  for  Deschapelles.  Scene  2.— Table,  not  very  rich- 
looking,  and  four  chairs;  folded  paper  for  M.  Deschapelles;  marriage  con- 
tract, papers  and  bag  for  Notary  ;  writing  materials ;  bundle  of  banknotes  for 
Beauseant  ;  pocket-book  and  notes  for  Claude. 


STORY  OF  THE  PLAT. 

In  the  year  1795  there  resided  in  the  quaint  old  city  of  Lyons  in  France  a  wealthy 
family  by  the  name  of  Deschappelles.  The  husband  had  amassed  a  large  fortune  as 
a  silk  manufacturer,  and  had  passed  through  the  early  part  of  the  Revolution  with- 
out sustaining  any  noticeable  loss.  Madame  Deschappelles,  as  frequently  the  case, 
was  the  ruler  of  the  house  ;  and  the  success  of  her  husband  in  amassing  wealth  had 
put  into  her  head  very  high  and  aristocratic  notions  far  beyond  her  position,  and 
certainly  not  in  keeping  with  the  Republican  spirit  of  the  times.  They  had  but  one 
child,  Pauline,  a  girl  of  such  surpassing  and  attractive  loveliness,  that  old  and  young 
—rich  and  poor— all  paid  homage  to  her  as  the  Beauty  of  Lyons.  For  her,  Madame 
Deschappelles  was  fully  determined  a  brilliant  marriage  should  be  brought  about. 
It  was  true  that  the  aristocracy  of  France  had  been  cleared  out,  the  Revolution  had 
reduced  every  one  to  a  common  level,  only  one  degree  of  rank  was  known,  that  of 
"  citizen,"  but  the  designing  mother  conceived  it  to  be  possible  to  catch  some  foreign 
prince  or  nobleman  who  might  be  travelling  incog. ;  no  matter  how  it  was  to  be 
brought  about,  nothing  less  than  a  prince  was  to  possess  the  hand  of  the  rich  and 
beautiful  Lady  of  Lyons, 

Amongst  the  numerous  suitors,  who  had  made  an  offer  of  his  heart  and  fortune, 
and  had  been  rejected,  was  a  Mons.  Beauseant,  who,  if  his  deceased  father  had  not 
been  deprived  of  his  title,  would  have  been  a  Marquis,  but  as  he  was  not  one,  he 
fell  below  Madame  Deschappelles'  standard  of  perfection,  and  in  spite  of  the  temp- 
tation of  his  great  wealth,  his  offer  was  refused.  It  is  at  this  point  the  play  com- 
mences. 

Smarting  severely  under  the  indignity  he  considered  he  had  suffered  by  receiving 
a  refusal  from  a  merchant's  daughter,  and  the  ridicule  he  wojild  be  exposed  to 


6  THIS    LADY    OF    LYONS. 

throughout  the  city  when  it  became  known,  he  resolves  to  be  revenged,  to  seek  some 
plan  to  humble  her  pride  severely  ;  an  opportunity  soon  presents  itself. 

On  journeying  from  Lyons  to  his  chateau,  he  meets  with  one  of  his  friends,  M. 
Glavis,  to  whom,  whilst  baiting  his  horses  at  the  Golden  Lion  Inn,  a  few  miles  from 
the  city,  he  reveals  all  that  has  taken  place  and  his  intentions.  As  he  is  doing  so, 
he  is  interrupted  by  loud  shouts  of  "  Long  live  the  Prince."  This  cry  of  "  Prince," 
when  royalty  and  nobility  no  ionger  existed,  astonishes  him,  and  he  calls  out  the 
landlord  of  the  inn  to  give  an  explanation.  From  this  source  he  finds  that  the  so 
called  prince  is  the  pride  of  the  village— Claude  Melnotte— the  only  son  of  a  deceased 
gardener,  who  had  left  him  pretty  well  off,  with  a  mother  who  doated  upon  him. 
Upon  the  father's  death,  a  great  change  was  observed  in  Claude.  He  threw  up  his 
trade,  took  to  reading  and  studying  much,  hired  a  professor  from  Lyons,  and  soon 
became  an  accomplished  scholar,  a  skillful  fencer,  a  musician,  and  an  artist.  Hand- 
some, strong,  and  brave,  the  lads  of  the  village  swore  by  him  and  the  girls  prayed 
for  him.  They  called  him  "  Prince  "  because  he  was  at  the  head  of  them  all,  had  a 
proud  bearing,  wore  fine  clothes,  and,  in  fact,  as  they  said,  "  looked  like  a  prince." 
Beauseant  further  learned  that  it  was  reported  and  believed,  Claude  Melnotte  was 
madly  in  love  with  the  Beauty  of  Lyons— the  seeds  of  the  passion  having  been  first 
planted  when  he  worked  with  his  father  in  M.  Deschappelles'  garden  ;  and  that 
upon  his  father's  death,  it  wis  the  ambitious  hope  of  winning  her  had  induced  him 
to  seek  the  education  and  accomplishments  which  he  had  so  successfully  done.  It 
was  believed,  however,  that  the  Beauty  of  Lyons  had  never  seen  him,  to  know  of,  or 
to  encourage,  his  love. 

The  idea  at  once  strikes  Beauseant  that  here  are  the  means  of  revenge.  He  will 
induce  Claude  to  pass  himself  off  as  a  foreign  prince,  travelling  quietly  for  pleasure, 
provide  him  with  money,  jewels,  horse3,  carriages,  servants  ;  introduce  him  as 
such  to  the  Deschappelles  family,  m  ike  him  propose  to  Pauline,  and,  by  working 
upon  the  ambitious  pride  of  her  mother,  bring  about  a  marriage  ;  then  strip  him  of 
his  borrowed  plumes  and  crush  the  haughty  beauty.  Accordingly  he  sends  a  letter 
to  Claude  requesting  him  to  come  to  the  inn. 

After  his  success  in  winning  the  rifle  prizes  at  the  village  festival,  Claude  returns 
to  his  mother's  cottage,  elated  with  joy,  but  his  mind  is  still  occupied  with  the 
grand  desire  of  his  existence— to  be  worthier  to  love  Pauline.  In  vain  does  his  lov- 
ing mother  point  out  the  absurdity  of  his  hopes.  Useless — day  and  night  he  thinks 
and  dreams  of  her  ;  every  morning  he  sends  her  the  choicest  flowers  he  can  pick  ; 
he  has  painted  her  image  from  memory  ;  nay,  more,  that  morning  he  has  gone  to 
the  fullest  extent ;  he  has  set  forth  his  worship  in  poetry,  signed  his  own  name,  and 
sent  the  verses  to  her  by  a  trusty  messenger.  Alas  !  a  fearful  blow  awaits  him. 
His  messenger  returns  not  only  bringing  back  the  letter  which  had  been  thrown  at 
his  feet,  but  also  the  galling  news  that  he  had  been  driven  from  the  door  with  kicks 
and  blows.  Crushed  and  bewildered,  Claude's  every  hope  seems  blasted,  when  Beau- 
seant's  letter  is  brought  in.  It  promises  success  (the  writer  telling  him  he  knows 
his  secret),  upon  condition  that  he  will  undertake  to  bear  his  bride  to  his  mother's 
cottage  on  the  wedding  night.  Is  revenge  or  love  the  stronger  ?  Half  frenzied  as 
he  is,  he  goes  with  the  messenger  and  the  compact  is  made. 

By  well  contrived  means,  he  is  introduced  into  the  family  of  the  Deschappelles 
ns  the  Prince  of  Como,  travelling  incognito,  for  fear  of  the  interference  of  the  Re- 
publican government,  and  by  his  presumed  rank  but  real  attraction  and  accomplish- 
ments, very  soon  secures  the  love  of  Pauline  and  the  consent  of  her  parents  to  a 
union. 

His  conduct,  however,  does  not  please  Colonel  Damas,  a  rough  and  ready  soldier, 
and  cousiu  to  Pauline  ;  he  suspects  there  is  some  deception,  and  to  test  him,  ad- 
dresses him  in  Italian,  a  language  which  Claude  is,  unfortunately,  not  master  of; 
he  evades  it  as  best  he  can,  but  only  to  convince  the  Colonel  of  the  correctness  of  his 
suspicions,  and  he  determines  to  insult  him  and  force  him  to  fight.  With  the  infatu- 
ated mother  and  daughter,  Claude  is  more  successful ;  they  do  not  see  any  absolute 
reason  why  an  Italian  Prince  is  bound  to  speak  or  understand  his  native  tongue. 


THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  7 

He  further  enchants  Pauline,  by  the  description  lie  gives,  not  of  his  own  palace  on 
the  lake  of  Coino,  but  of  a  palace  of  eternal  love  and  summer,  joy  and  happiness  — 
one  of  the  most  exquisite  pieces  of  poetry  ever  written. 

Beauseant  now  claims  from  him  the  fulfillment  of  the  bond  ;  he  hesitates.  Beau- 
seant  points  out  to  him,  that  Dumas  suspects  him,  the  police  will  be  set  to  work, 
arrest  will  follow,  he  wiil  be  sent  to  jail  as  a  swindler,  and  Pauline  will  despise  and 
execrate  him.  He  consents,  and  is  left  alone — Damas  returns,  and  insists,  now 
that  the  ladies  are  not  there,  upon  crossing  swords  with  him.  Excitedly,  Claude 
accepts  the  offer,  after  a  few  passes  disarms  the  Colonel,  and  generously  returns 
him  his  sword.  Delighted  with  his  skill  and  gentlemanly  bearing,  the  officer  prom- 
ises that  if  Claude  should  ever  want  his  assistance  or  friendship,  be  he  a  prince  or 
not,  he  shall  have  it. 

Immediately,  upon  quitting  Claude,  Beauseant  finds  means  to  fi'oat  a  story  that 
the  republican  authorities  are  looking  after  the  prince  ;  consequently  an  immediate 
marriage  is  absolutely  necessary  ;  this  is  agreed  to  and  it  takes  place. 

By  a  strange  chance,  the  carriage  conveying  Claude  and  his  bride  to  his  mother's 
cottage,  according  to  the  bond  with  Beauseant,  breaks  down,  near  the  Golden  Lion 
Inn,  and  they  are  obliged  to  alight  and  seek  shelter  there.  They  are  exposed  to  the 
half-suppressed  smiles  and  ridicule  of  the  landlord  and  his  servants,  who,  of  course, 
recognize  Claude,  though  not  openly ;  all  of  which  is  a  great  mystery  to  Pauline, 
and  the  more  so,  when  Claude  induces  her  to  continue  the  journey  on  foot,  as  she 
believes  him  to  be  strange  to  the  place  :  but  the  climax  is  reached,  and  her  agony 
intensified,  when  she  is  led  into  the  humble  dwelling  of  the  Widow  Meluotte. 

Light  breaks  upon  her — the  veil  is  lifted  from  her  eyes  :  she  has  been  deceived — 
all  is  revealed — and  in  bitter  language  she  reproaches  him  for  his  conduct. 

In  a  speech  of  most  beautiful  pathos  and  faultless  construction,  Claude  pictures 
to  her  the  story  of  his  love,  his  hopes  and  sufferings,  and  lays  at  her  feet  his  hus- 
band's rights,  declaring  that  a  marriage  so  brought  about  is  null  and  void,  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  France — that  under  his  aged  mother's  care  she  shall,  that  night, 
sleep  in  peace  and  safety,  and  in  the  morning  he  will  restore  her  to  her  father,  pure 
and  unsullied  as  he  had  received  her. 

"With  broken-heart  and  fevered  brain,  he  writes  to  M.  Deschappelles,  and  in  the 
morning  awaits  patiently  his  arrival.  Beauseant  takes  the  opportunity  to  call,  to 
gloat  over  the  misery  he  has  created,  and  in  the  excitement  of  his  triumph,  goes  so 
far  as  to  insult  Pauline,  but  the  strong  arm  of  her  husband  hurls  him  oil,  and  he  re- 
treats with  threats  of  renewed  vengeance. 

M.  Deschappelles  arrives,  and  Claude,  after  a  brief  explanation,  places  in  his  hands 
a  full  confession  of  the  fraud  that  has  been  practiced,  and  his  consent  to  a  divorce  — 
that  pure  and  spotless  he  yields  her  back,  and  in  a  distant  land  he  intends  to  mourn 
his  sin,  and  pray  for  peace  and  forgiveness.  Here  comes  forth  a  fine  burst  of  mater- 
nal love  ;  in  sorrow  or  in  guilt,  the  widow  will  not  disown  her  son  :  for  no  divorce 
can  part  them.  This  noble  feeling  arouses  the  woman  and  the  wife  in  Pauline,  and 
throwing  herself  into  Claude's  arms,  she  implores  him  to  take  her  to  his  bosom. 
Her  parents  threaten  to  discard  and  disinherit  her — Claude  is  inexorable  ;  he 
refuses  firmly.  Colonel  Damas  is  charmed  with  his  noble  bearing,  he  tells  him  he 
is  leaving  that  day  to  join  the  Army  of  Italy,  and  offers  to  take  him.  It  is  done  ; 
fame  or  death  are  before  him  ;  with  a  bitter  struggle,  Claude  Melnotte  sets  out  for 
the  army. 

Two  years  and  a  half  elapse.  Time  has  worked  changes  with  all.  M. 
Deschappelles  has  suffered  such  heavy  reverses  that  he  stands  upon  the  brink  of 
ruin.  Beauseant,  aware  of  this,  offers  to  help  him  in  return  for  Pauline's  hand  ;  to 
save  her  father  from  destruction  she  consents  to  the  marriage. 

Claude,  under  the  assumed  name  of  Morier,  has  passed  safely  through  the  cam- 
paign, and  returns  wealthy,  renowned,  and  with  the  rank  of  Colonel.  Damas  learns 
of  the  intended  marriage,  and  he  suggests  that  Claude,  who,  with  his  altered  ap- 
pearance, through  hard  service  and  change  of  dress,  is  not  likely  to  be  recognized, 
should  be  present  at   the   signing   of  the  contract  of  marriage — to  take  a  last  fare- 


b  THE    LADY    OF    LYONS. 

well ;  to  this  he  agrees.  Damas  introduces  hiru  as  his  most  particular  friend  and  as 
a  bosom  comrade  of  Claude.  Pauline  eagerly,  appeals  to  him  to  bear  to  Claude  her 
undying  love,  and  tells  him  of  the  reason  that  she  is  making  the  sacrifice  of  all 
earthly  happiness.  Beauseant  produces  the  roll  of  notes  he  is  ready  to  hand  over 
upon  the  signing  of  the  contract.  Pauline  is  about  to  do  so,  when  Claude,  seizing 
the  contract,  tears  it  into  pieces,  at  the  same  time  throwing  to  the  merchant  twice 
the  proffered  amount. 

Beauseant  retires  defeated  and  angered ;  with  the  others  all  is  happiness. 
Claude  has  blotted  the  stain  from  his  name  and  redeemed  his  honor  ;  Pauline  has 
regained  her  husband  ;  the  merchant  is  restored  to  his  high  position  ;  and  even 
Madam  Deschappelles  admits  ; 

•'  A  Colonel  and  a  hero  !    Well,  that's  something  !" 


REMARKS. 


As  "good  wine  needs  no  bush  "  so  any  panegryic  upon  the  brilliant  writings  of 
Lord  Lytton  (but  who  will  always  be  better  known  and  spoken  of  as  "  Bulwer'" — 
>Sir  Edward  Lytton  Bulwer)-»-is  perfectly  unnecessary.  The  hold  that  his  works 
have  taken  in  America  is  very  great,  and  his  reputation  is  daily  increasing. 

For  a  long  time  yet  across  the  Atlantic,  will  live  the  name  and  works  of  James 
Fenimore  Cooper,  and  equally  so  on  this  side  rise  those  of  Bulwer. 

Nor  is  this  to  be  wondered  at,  when  the  most  glowing  enconiums  possible  have 
been  passed  upon  him  in  every  circle.     Blackivood's  Magazine  said  of  him  ; 

"  To  Bulwer,  the  author  of  '  Pelham,'  '  The  Caxtons  '  and  '  My  Novel,'  we 
assign  the  highest  place  among  modern  writers  of  fiction.  There  is  always  power  in 
the  creation  of  his  fancy  :  he  is  always  polished,  witty,  learned.  Since  the  days  of 
Scott  were  ended,  there  is,  in  our  own  opinion,  no  pinacle  so  high  as  that  on  which 
we  hang  our  wreath  to  Bulwer." 

And  the  great  American  author,  Edgar  A.  Poe,  spoke  of  him  thus  : 

"  Who  is  there  uniting  the  imagination,  the  passion,  the  humor,  the  energy,  the 
knowledge  of  the  heart,  the  artist-like  eye,  the  originality,  the  fancy,  and  the  learn- 
ing of  Bulwer?  In  a  vivid  wit — in  profundity  and  a  gothic  massiveness  of  thought 
— in  style— in  a  calm  certainty  of  definitiveness  of  purpose — in  industry,  and,  above 
all,  in  the  power  of  controlling  and  regulating  by  volition  his  illimitable  faculties 
of  mind,  he  is  unequalled." 

Such  are  specimens  of  the  universal  opinion  entertained  of  the  author  of  "  The 
Lady  of  Lyons  "  "  Richelieu  "  and  "  Money,"  Plays  which  will  retain  their  posi- 
tion on  the  stage  for  years  and  years  to  come,  and  which  will  be  published  in  this 
series,  in  the  order  named  : 

The  period  chosen  for  the  incidents  of  the  present  play,  is  some  years  after  the 
commencement  of  the  Revolution  in  France.  Arising  chiefly  from  oppressive  taxa- 
tion, a  spirit  of  discontent  had  long  been  growing  up  amongst  the  middle  and  lower 
classes  against  the  sovereign  power  and  the  aristocracy.  Political  intrigues  and 
crafty,  remorseless  schemes  fed  and  fanned  the  fl  ime  which  spread  throughout  the 
country  with  fearful  and  terrible  rapidity.  Many  of  the  people  and  their  leaders 
lost  their  heads  by  wild  and  ferocious  delirium ;  the  royal  family  and  hundreds  of 
the  nobility  and  gentry  lost  theirs  by  the  guillotine.  And  so,  in  one  continual 
scene  of  tumult,  riot,  debauchery  and  blood,  year  after  year  had  passed  on — now  one 
party  ruling,  and  now  another,  until  at  the  period  when  the  play  commences,  the 
governing  power  consisted  of  a  body  of  men,  or  deputies,  chosen  from  the  people — 
and  termed  "  The  Directory  " — all  of  them  "  Citizens,"  the  only  term  recognized- 
all  degrees  of  nobility  and  rank  having  been  abolished. 

The  author's  good  judgment  is  most  felicitously  shown  in  selecting  France  and 
this  period  for  the  action  of  his  play.  Its  emotional  style  is  precisely  of  the  nature 
to  be  found  in  that  country,  and  the  events  then  in  progress  enabled  him  to  send  his 


THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  9 

hero  into  the  array  and  raise  him  naturally,  and  with  a  rapidity  that  was  then  not  at 
all  uncommon,  to  honor  and  wealth,  instead  of  resorting  to  the  old  stagey  devices  of 
"unexpected  fortune,"  "  death  of  a  wealthy  uncle  in  India,"  and  other  reasons 
ad  libitum  and  ad  nauseam.  Auy  and  every  position  was  open  to  a  daring  and  suc- 
cessful soldier.  Napoleon  Bonaparte  progressed  from  an  artillery  lieutenant 
to  First  Consul  and  Emperor;  Claude  Melnotte  was  more  modest  in  his  ambition, 
he  was  content  to  stop  at  Colonel. 

Though  very  beautiful,  in  many  respects,  the  play  is  undoubtedly  to  some  extent 
faulty  and  forced  in  construction,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  the  quickness  of  action, 
telling  points,  and  beauty  of  language,  rivet  and  please  an  audience  and  push  aside 
any  imperfections. 

It  is  a  curious  fact,  but  fact  it  is,  that  very  few  good  poets  or  novelists  make  good 
playwrights,  their  works  require  more  excision  and  reforming  than  those  written 
direct  for  the  stage  by  practical  dramatic  hands.  The  Lady  of  Lyons,  as  acted,  dif- 
fers much  from  the  dramatic  poem  as  originally  published. 

Upon  the  first  production  of  this  play,  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  Royal,  Lon- 
don, in  1838,  it  had  the  advantage  of  being  most  effectively  cast — and  probably  never 
since  have  all  the  parts  been  so  well  and  evenly  filled.  It  must,  however,  be  remem- 
bered, that  the  author  knew  what  the  company  could  do,  and  had  them  in  mind 
when  he  wrote  the  play.  Every  person  engaged,  rose  afterwards  to  a  leading  posi- 
tion in  the  profession.  Mr.  Macready,  the  representative  of  the  hero  of  the  play, 
was  in  every  respect  admirably  adapted  to  the  part.  Educated  for  the  bar,  he  quit- 
ted that  profession  for  the  stage,  and  combining  a  fine  appearance  with  high  intel- 
lect, an  excellent  voice  and  good  elocution,  ae  was  all  that  the  author  could  desire. 
He  continued  his  successful  career  for  mmy  years! "and  held  his  position  against  all 
comers.  Mr.  Elton  made  one  of  the  best  Bcauseants  ever  seen  upon  the  stage.  He 
steadily  increased  his  laurels,  and  at  the  time  of  his  lamented  death  (he  was  lost  at 
sea)  he  occupied  a  position  in  the  gallery  of  public  favorites.  Mr.  Diddear  made  a  hit 
in  the  small  but  telling  part  of  Caspar,  and  afterwards  led  a  good  career. 

Claude  Melnotte  is  a  fine  drawn  character.  It  depictures  well  high  ambition, 
ardent  love,  and  at  the  same  lime  a  deep  sense  of  true  nobility  and  honor.  His 
pride,  his  consciousness  of  possessing  sterling  merit  worthy  of  the  best  of  women,  are 
for  the  moment  crushed  by  the  insulting  treatment  to  his  messenger,  and  the 
scornful  rejection  of  his  verses.  It  is  at  this  opportune  moment  for  evil,  that  the 
tempter  comes,  and  he  falls  an  easy  victim  to  Beauseant's  artful  plans.  But  the 
principles  of  reason  and  honor  revive  ;  his  eyes  open  to  the  discovery  of  the  cruel 
fraud  he  has  committed,  and  the  grievous  wrong  and  sacrifice  he  was  about  to  cause 
for  his  own  selfish  ends.  In  true  and  pure  nobility  of  spirit,  he  restores  Pauline  to 
her  parents;  lost  to  him  forever  unless  he  should  succeed  in  the  path  of  glory. 
This  character  has  always  been  a  great  favorite  with  leading  actors.  Macready  was 
followed  by  Charles  Kean,  Phelps,  Creswick,  James  Anderson,  and  a  host  of  others, 
by  all  of  whom  it  was  well  rendered,  and  last,  though  by  no  means  least,  Barry  Sul- 
livan, who  may  be  considered  at  the  present  period,  the  best  Claude  Melnotte  on  the 
English  stage.  The  celebrated  French  actor,  M.  Fechter,  also  appeared  in  it,  and 
in  aversion  upon  which  he  exercised  his  high  tilents  and  skill,  by  making  various 
little  practical  alterations,  he  met  with  very  great  success,  as  he  does  in  most  of  his 
parts. 

Pauline  is  a  sweet  but  somewhat  curious  type  of  woman.  She  has  a  warm,  loving 
and  sensitive  heart,  much  injured  by  the  lofty  aspirations  and  vanity  instilled  into 
her  by  her  flattering  and  ambitious  mother.  Not  only  by  his  presumed  rank,  but 
by  his  warm  and  passionate  love  and  glowing  language,  Claude  has  won  her  affec- 
tions, and  though  the  fearful  discovery  of  his  deceit  crushes  them  for  the  time,  the 
true  woman  speaks  forth  and  remains  firm  to  the  end.  She  is  willing  to  give  her 
hand  to  save  her  father  from  ruin,  but,  heart  and  soul,  her  love  is  Claude's. 

Miss  Helen  Faucit  was  everything  that  could  be  desired  to  realize  the  author's 
picture.  Young,  beautiful,  and  accomplished,  she  made  a  great  hit,  and  for  many 
years  afterwards  held  firm  ground  in  public  favor.    Her  intellect,  beauty,  talent  and 


10  THE    LADY    OF    LVO>TS. 

purity,  won  for  her,  as  a  husband,  an  accomplished  scholar,  gentleman,  and  lawyer 
(Mr.  Theodore  Martin),  and  there  has,  perhaps,  never  boeu  a  finer  scene  than  when 
she  took  her  farewell  of  the  stage. 

In  Colonel  Damas  we  have  a  well-drawn  specimen  of  an  honest  and  blunt  soldier. 
He  openly  expresses  his  disapprobation  of  the  scheming1  high  notions  of  his  rela- 
tives, and  with  the  keenness  of  a  well-trained  soldier,  he  sees  through  the  duplicity 
of  Claude.  But,  rough  as  he  is,  he  is  open  to  conviction,  and  the  skill  and  gallant  bear- 
ing of  his  adversary  wiu  his  admiration,  his  assistance  and  friendship.  It  is  a  capi- 
tal part,  giving  ample  scope  for  a  good  actor  to  make  it  a  most  effective  one. 

The  Widow  Melnotte  is  a  neat  little  genial  part.  It  is  very  touching  when  well 
played — the  forcible  points  of  maternal  love  are  strongly  and  judiciously  shown. 

M.  Deschappelles  is  simply  a  man  of  business ;  little  sentiment  or  affection 
enters  into  his  mind  ;  his  wife  "  rules  the  roost,"  and  he  looks  after  the  money. 

Madame  Deschappelles  is  an  excellent  specimen  of  a  vain,  ambitious  woman, 
whose  only  heaven  seems  to  be  "  princes  "  or  "  lords.''  To  the  shrine  of  one  or  the 
other  she  is  r  jady  to  sacrifice  her  daughter,  and  has  carefully  schooled  her  thoughts 
in  that  direction. 

Beauseant  is  a  crafty,  self-inflated,  and  designing  mm;  without  principle,  and 
presuming  upon  his  father's  former  aristocratic  position  and  his  own  wealth,  he 
thinks,  like  many  of  a  similar  class  in  the  present  day,  that  they  are  sufficient  to 
ensure  success  in  everything  he  may  undertake,  and  compliance  with  all  his  wishes 
— without  the  slightest  regard  to  the  claims  of  merit  and  the  principles  of  honesty 
and  integrity. 

Even  the  landlord  of  the  inn  is  a  very  neat  little  part,  and  can  be  made  much  of 
in  the  hands  of  a  careful  actor.  'Touching  upon  this,  I  remember  an  anecdote  told 
me  in  England  by  the  late  "William  Searle,  who  occupied  a  very  fair  position  in  his 
profession.  He  was  well  educated,  but  like  many  young  men  at  that  time  starting 
in  the  profession,  he  had,  in  travelling  through  the  country,  very  much  trouble  to 
make  both  ends  meet  when  business  was  not  good — very  often  to  slip  away  at 
nights  and  leave  his  lodgings  unpaid.  Upon  one  occasion,  the  company  he  was  with 
was  broken  up.  He  sought,  of  course,  a  new  engagement ;  he  was  but  little  known, 
and  after  a  few  words  with  the  manager  of  another  company,  the  question  was  ab- 
ruptly put  to  him,  "  Can  you  do  the  Landlord  in  the  Lady  of  Lyons  J" 

To  which  he  promptly  and  wittily  replied,  "  I  should  say  so,  undoubtedly  ;  I  have 
done  a  good  many  landlords  in  my  time,  and  never  once  failed." 

He  was  engaged. 

Now  let  us  cross  the  water  and  come  home.  The  eminent  and  great  actor,  Edwin 
Forrest,  had  appeared  in  London,  in  October,  1836,  at  the  Theatre  Boyal,  Drury 
Lane,  as  Spartacus  in  Dr.  Bird's  tragedy  of  th3  Gladiator,  and  achieved  a  decided 
success.  He  was  intensely  pleased  with  the  production  of  the  Lady  of  Lyons— his 
keen  intellect  and  high  genius  at  once  Baw  and  appreciated  the  beauty  of  the  concep- 
tion, and  that  its  success  here  was  as  certain  as  in  England.  He  returned  to  New 
York,  and  produced  it  at  the  Old  Park  Theatre,  May  14,  1838,  himself,  of  course, 
playing  the  hero.  All  the  genius,  energy,  ability,  and  talent  of  this  truly  great  ac- 
•  tor  were  concentrated  on  the  part;  and  from  all  the  authorities  I  have  looked  at,  it 
was  a  grand  success,  and  I  have  little  doubt  his  rendering  of  the  character  was  equal 
to  that  of  Macready 's.  Throughout  the  play  he  appears  to  have  been  well  supported 
by  an  attractive  and  efficient  Pauline,  as  also  by  an  excellent  Damas,  Beauseant, 
and  Madame  Deschappelles.  Taken  altogether,  it  must  have  been  cast  almost  as 
effectively  as  upon  its  first  production.  So  successful  was  it,  that  the  first  three 
nights'  takings  are  said  to  have  realized  $4,200.  Mr.  Forrest  made  this  all  through 
his  life  a  f  ivorite  character,  following  it  afterwards  with  Bulwcr's  succeeding  plays 
of  Money  and  Riehelieu. 

Mr.  G.  V.  Brooke  was  another  fine  delineator  of  the  character ;  indeed,  it  was  al- 
most the  last  he  played  in  England  previous  to  his  departure  for  Australia  in  the 
unfortunate  steamer,  the  London,  which  was  wrecked  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  Jan.  11, 
186G,  when  he  and  nearly  all  on  board  perished. 

Mr,  P.  B.  Conway,  so  recently  deceased,  also  p'ayed  the  character  at  the  Broad- 


1HE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  11 

way  Theatre,  with  considerable  success.  He  had  been  educated  in  England  previ- 
ously in  an  exeeleut  school,  having  had  much  experience  in  Dublin  with  Miss 
Helen  Faucit  (the  original  l'auline),  and  in  London  with  the  accomplished,  beauti- 
ful, and  versatile  actress,  Madame  Vestris. 

Mr.  Thomas  Placide,  who  played  Colonel  Damas,  was  a  gentleman  of  much  ex- 
perience, having  made  his  first  appearance  at  the  Park  Theatre  in  1S23,  and  after- 
wards he  visited  England  ;  his  performance  of  the  part  is  well  recorded. 

Mr.  llichiugs,  who  filled  the  character  of  Beauseant,  was  an  old  stager  at  the  Talk 
Theatre,  having  first  appeared  there  upon  his  arrival  from  England  in  Sept.,  1821, 
as  Harry  Bertram,  in  "  Guy  Manneriug."  He  continued  a  great  favorite  in  the  city 
until  1839,  when  he  left  for  Philadelphia.  He  rendered  the  character  of  the  rejected 
suitor  in  a  style  quite  equal  to  the  original. 

Mrs.  Wheatley's  Madame  Descheppelles  is  recorded  as  a  finished  piece  of  acting. 
She  was  one  of  the  best  representatives  of  old  women  upon  the  American  stage. 
Possessed  of  remarkable  study,  she  mastered  the  most  difficult  compositions  with 
astounding  rapidity,  and  her  vivid  and  life-like  acting  was  of  a  character  that  once 
seen  could  never  be  forgotten.  Indeed,  from  all  accounts,  her  Madame  Deschap- 
pelle3  was  a  perfect  gem. 

One  of  the  sweetest  Paulines  was  Miss  Laura  Addison.  She  made  a  great  hit  in 
England,  and  first  appeared  at  the  Broadway  Theatre,  New  York,  in  Sept.,  1851. 
Twelve  months  afterwards  she  died  on  board  the  steamer  Oregon,  on  her  passage 
from  Albany  to  New  York,  and  her  sudden  demise  created  a  great  sensation.  She 
was  buried  in  the  Marble  Cemetery,  Second  street,  New  York ;  foul  play  was  sus- 
pected, but  a  post-mortem  examination  showed  that  congestion  of  the  brain  was  the 
cause  of  her  death. 

It  is  impossible  to  give  anything  like  a  list  of  those  who  have  taken  the  leading 
characters.  As  Claude,  besides  those  previously  named,  we  have  seen  Charles  Dil- 
lon, J.  C.  Freer,  D.  W.  Osbaldiston,  Watkins  Burroughs,  T.  C.  King,  George  Van- 
denhoff,  Herman  Vezin,  E.  L.  Davenport,  and  a  host  of  others. 

As  Pauline,  Miss  Elsworthy,  Miss  Vincent,  Mrs.  C.  Dillon,  Kate  Saxon,  Kate 
Reignolds,  Mrs.  H.  Vezin  (formerly  Mrs.  Charles  Young),  Mrs.  Mowatt,  Mrs.  J.  B. 
Booth,  and  Mrs.  Sinclair  Forrest,  etc.,  etc. 

Wherever  and  whenever  produced,  and  even  with  the  drawback  of  an  inferior 
cast,  the  intrinsic  merits  of  the  three  plays  are  such  that  they  have  been  and  always 
will  be  successful.  It  is  to  me  quite  certain  that  not  one  jot  of  their  brilliancy  and 
effect  has  been  lost  by  their  transfer  to  the  American  boards.  J.  u.  k. 


12  THE    LADY/    OF    LYONS. 


BILL  FOR  PROGRAMMES,  Etc. 

The  events  of  this  Play  take  place  at  the  city  of  Lyons,  in  France.    Period,  1795 

to  1798. 

ACT    I . 

Scene  I.— ROOM  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  MONS.  DE-CIIAPPELLES. 

The  Beauty  of  Lyons — The  Mysterious  Flowers — An  Offer  of  Marriage — 

The  Refusal. 
Scene  II.— EXTERIOR    OF    "THE    GOLDEN    LION    INN,"  WITH 

DISTANT  VIEW  OF  THE  CITY  OF  LYONS. 
The  Rejected  Suitor— Plans  for  Revenge— The  Slcp-y  of  Claude  Melnotte, 
the  Gardener's  Son — His  Love  for  the  Beauty  of  Lyons — The  Letter  and 
the  Trap. 
Scene  III.— INTERIOR  OF  THE  WIDOW  MELNOTTES  COTTAGE. 
Claude  Melnotte,  the  "  Prince '"  of  Riflemen— A  Story  of  Ambition — An 
Artist's  Love  and  a  Painter's  Idol — The  Poetry  of  Love — Indignity  and 
Disgrace  -The  Scheme  of  Revenge  begins  to  Work — The  Letter  and  the 
Snare — The  Bird  Caught. 

ACT    II. 

Scene  I.— THE  GARDENS  OF  MONS.  DESCHAPPELLES'  HOUSE, 
AT  LYONS. 

The  Plot  Succeeds— The  Gardener's  Sort  Changed  into  a  Prince— Free  Gifts 
— A  Dream  of  Love  and  Fairyland — Darkness  Approaches— A  Forced 
Marriage  with  the  Beauty  of  Lyons — A  Duel  and  a  Generous  Adversary 
—Threatened  Arrest  and  a  Hasty  Marriage—"  Woo,  Wed,  and  bear  her 
Home,"  so  runs  the  Bond. 

ACT    III. 

Scene  I.— EXTERIOR    OF    "THE   GOLDEN   LION  INN."     MOON- 
LIGHT. 
The  Mask  falling  off— Departure  of  the  Pretended  Prince  and  his  Bride  for 

Home. 

Scene  IL— INTERIOR  OF  THE  WIDOW  MELNOTTES  COTTAGE. 

Humble  Preparations  for  a  Wedding  Supper — Surprise  and  Explanations — 

The  Fraud  Detected — A  Thrilling  Story  of  Love — A  Bride  but  no  Wife. 


ACT    IV. 

Scene  I.— INTERIOR  OF  THE  WIDOW  MELNOTTE'S   COTTAGE. 
MORNING. 

Claude's  noble  Sacrifice  and  Devotion — A  Mother's  holy  Love — Triumph  of 
the  Rejected  Suitor — A  Libertine's  Attack — A  Husband  to  the  Rescue — 
The  Last  Embrace — The  Fraud  Confessed — Claude  Consents  to  a  Divorce 
— Devotion  of  the  Beauty  of  Lyons — "  Too  late!  I  achieve  Rank  and 
Fame,  or  fall  upon  the  Field!" — Departure  of  Claude  for  the  Army  of 
Italy. 

TWO  TEARS  AND  A  HALF  ELAPSE. 


THE    LADY    OF    LYONS. 


13 


ACT    V. 

Scene  I.— A  STREET  IN  LYONS. 
Return  from  the  War — The  Mysterious  Colonel — Honor,  Fame  and  Fortune 

— Divorce  of  the  Beauty  of  Lyons — A  Plan  for  the  Last  Look  of  Love. 
Scene  II.— ROOM  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  MONS.  DESCHAPELLES. 
Preparations  for  the  Marriage  of  Pauline  and  the  Rejected  Suitor — A 
Daughter's  Heart  Sold  to  Save  a  Ruined  Father — The  Mysterious  Colo- 
nel Again — "  He  is  a  Friend  of  Claude  Melnotte  " — Story  of  a  Woman's 
Love — Pauline's  Confession — "  Tell  him  I  love  him,  but  a  father  calls 
upon  his  child  to  save  him.  We  shall  meet  again  hi  heaven!" — The 
Stakes  are  Doubled  and  Claude  toins  the  Race — A  Wife  Regained — A 
Parent's  Honor  Saved — Unity  of  Love  and  Pride — Happy  Re-union  of 
Claude  Melnotte  and 

THE  LADY  OF  LYONS. 


EXPLANATION  OF  THE  STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 
The  Actor  is  supposed  to  face  the  Audience. 


E.  3e. 
B.3&. 

/ 


/ 


/ 


(SCENE. 


\ 


L.  3  E. 


\ 


\ 


L.  22. 

L.  IE* 


R.  B.  0.  0.  ti,  0.  "L. 

AUDIENCE. 


l.  Left. 

l.  o.  Left  Centre. 

l.  1  e.  Left  First  Entrance. 

L.  2  E.  Left  Second  Entrance. 

L.  3  e.  Left  Third  Entrance. 

L.  u.  e.  Left  Upper  Entrance 

(wherever  this  Scene  may  be.) 

D.  L.  c.  Door  Left  Centre. 


C.  Centre. 
E.  Eight. 

B.  1  E.  Eight  First  Entrance. 

B.  2  E.  Eight  Second  Entrance. 

B.  3  E.  Eight  Third  Entrance. 

B.-U.  E.  Eight  Upper  Entrance. 

D.  e.  o  Door  Right  Centre. 


14  1HE    LADY    OF    LYONS. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

An  indistinct  recollection  of  the  very  pretty  little  tale,  called  "The  Bellows- 
Mender,"  suggested  the  plot  of  this  Drama.  The  incidents  are,  however,  greatly 
altered  from  those  of  the  tale,  and  the  characters  entirely  recast. 

Having  long  had  a  wish  to  illustrate  certain  periods  of  French  history,  so,  iu  the 
selection  of  the  date  in  which  the  scenes  of  this  play  are  laid,  I  saw  that  the  era  of 
the  RepuLIic  was  that  in  which  the  incidents  were  rendered  most  probable,  in  which 
the  probationary  career  of  the  hero  could  well  be  made  sufficiently  rapid  for  dramatic 
effect,  and  in  which  the  character  of  the  time  itself  was  depicted  by  the  agencies 
necessary  to  the  conduct  of  the  narrative.  For  during  the  early  years  of  the  first 
and  most  brilliant  successes  of  the  French  Republic,  in  the  general  ferment  of 
society,  and  the  brief  equalization  of  ranks,  Claude's  high-placed  love,  his  ardent 
feelings,  his  unsettled  principles  (the  struggle  between  which  makes  the  passion  of 
this  drama),  his  ambition,  and  his  career,  were  phenomena  that  characterized  the 
age,  and  in  which  the  spirit  of  the  nation  went  along  with  the  extravagance  of  the 
individual. 

The  play  itself  was  composed  with  a  twofold  object.  In  the  first  place,  sympa- 
thizing with  the  enterprise  of  Mr.  Macready,  as  Manager  of  Covent  Garden,  and  be- 
lieving that  many  of  the  higher  interests  of  the  Drama  were  involved  ia  the  success 
or  failure  of  an  enterprise  equally  hazardous  and  disinterested,  I  felt,  if  I  may  so 
presume  to  express  myself,  something  of  the  Brotherhood  of  Art,  and  it  was  only  for 
Mr.  Macready  to  think  it  possible  that  I  might  serve  him  in  order  to  induce  me  to 
make  the  attempt. 

Secondly,  in  that  attempt  I  was  mainly  anxious  to  see  whether  or  not,  after  the 
comparative  failure  on  the  stage  of  "  The  Duchess  de  la  Valliere,"  certain  critics  had 
truly  declared  that  it  was  not  in  my  power  to  attain  the  art  of  dramatic  construc- 
tion and  theatrical  effect.  I  felt,  indeed,  that  it  -was  in  this  that  a  writer,  accus- 
tomed to  the  narrative  class  of  composition,  would  have  the  most  both  to  learn  and 
a?)learu.  Accordingly,  it  was  to  the  development  of  the  plot  and  the  arrangement 
of  the  incidents  that  I  directed  my  chief  attention -and  I  sought  to  throw  whatever 
belongs  to  poetry  less  into  the  diction  and  the  ' '  felicity  of  words  "  than  into  the  con- 
struction of  the  story,  the  creation  of  the  characters,  and  the  spirit  of  ^he  pervading, 
sentiment. 

The  authorship  of  the  play  was  neither  avowed  nor  suspected  until  the  play  had 
established  itself  in  public  favor.  The  announcement  of  my  name  was  the  signal 
for  attacks,  chiefly  political,  to  which  it  is  now  needless  to  refer.  "When  a  work  has 
outlived  for  some  time  the  earlier  hostilities  t>f  criticism,  there  comes  a  new  race  of 
critics  to  which  a  writer  may,  for  the  most  part,  calmly  trust  for  a  fair  considera- 
tion, whether  of  the  faults  or  the  merits  of  bis  performance. 


THE  LADY  OF  LYONS  ; 

OR,  LO YE  AKD  PRIDE. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — A  room  in  the  house  of  M.  Deschappelles,  at  Lyons.  Pau- 
line reclining  on  a  sofa,  k.  ;  Marian,  her  maid,  finning  her,  r.  Flow- 
ers and  notes  on  a  tabic  beside  the  sofa  ;  Madame  Deschappelles  seated 
at  a  table,  l.  c.     The  gardens  are  seen  from  the  open  window. 

Mme.  Deschap.  Marian,  put  that  rose  a  little  more  to  tlie  left  (Ma- 
rian alters  the  position  of  a  rose  in  Pauline's  hair)  Ah,  so  !  that  improves 
the  hair — the  tournure,  the/c  ne  sais  quoi !  You  are  certainly  very  hand- 
some, child! — quite  my  style— I  don't  wonder  that  you  make  such  a 
sensation  ! — old,  young,  rich,  and  poor  do  homage  to  the  Beauty  of 
Lyons  !  Ah,  we  live  again  in  our  children — especially  when  they  have 
our  eyes  and  complexion  ! 

Pauline  {languidly)  Dear  mother,  you  spoil  your  Pauline,  (aside)  I 
wish  I  knew  who  sent  me  these  flowers. 

Mme.  Deschap.  No,  child.  If  I  praise  you,  it  is  only  to  inspire  you 
with  a  proper  ambition.  You  are  born  to  make  a  great  marriage.  Beau- 
ty is  valuable  or  worthless  according  as  you  invest  the  property  to  the 
best  advantage.     Marian,  go"  and  order  the  carriage  ! 

[Exit  Marian,  r.  3  e. 

Pauline.  Who  can  it  be  that  sends  me,  every  day,  these  beautiful 
flowers  ?     How  sweet  they  are ! 

Enter  Servant,  l.  2  e. 

Servant.  Monsieur  Beauseant,  madam. 

Mme.  Deschap.  Let  him  enter.  [Exit  Servant)  Pauline,  this  is  an- 
other offer  ! — 1  know  it  is  !  Your  father  should  engage  an  additional 
clerk  to  keep  the  account  book  of  your  conquests. 

Enter  Beauseant,  l..2  e. 

Beauseant.  Ah,  ladies,  how  fortunate  I  am  to  find  you  at  home. 
(aside)  How  lovely  she  looks  !  It  is  a  great  sacrifice  I  make  in  marry- 
ing into  a  family  in  trade ! — they  will  be  eternally  grateful !  (aloud) 
Madam,  you  will  permit  me  a  word  with  your  charming  daughter?  (ap- 
proaches Pauline,  who  rises  disdainfully)  Mademoiselle,  I  have  ventured 
to  wait  upon  you,  in  a  hope  that  you  must  long  since  have  divined.  Last 
night,  when  you  outshone  all  the  beauty  of  Lyons,  you  completed  your 
conquest  over  me.     You  know  that  my  fortune  is  not  exceeded  by  any 


16  THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  [-VCT  I. 

estate  in  the  province — you  know  that,  but  for  the  Revo'ution,  which 
has  defrauded  me  of  my  titles,  I  should  be  noble.  May  Is  then,  trust 
that  you  will  not  reject  my  alliance  !     1  oiler  you  my  bnnd  and  heart. 

Pauline  (aside).  He  has  the  air  of  a  man  who  confers  a  favor,  (aloud) 
Sir,  you  are  very  condescending — I  thank  you  humbly  ;  but,  being  duly 
sensible  of  my  own  demerits,  you  must  allow  me  to  decline  the  honor 
you  propose,  (curtsies,  and  funis  away.) 

Beac.  (a).  Decline!  impossible! — you  are  not  serious  Madam, 
suffer  me  to  appeal  to  you.  I  am  a  suitor  for  your  daughter's  hand — 
the  settlements  shall  be  worthy  her  beauty  and  my  station.  May  I  wait 
on  M.  Deschappelles  1 

Mme.  Deschap.  M.  Deschappelles  never  interferes  in  the  domestic 
arrangements — you  are  very  obliging.  If  you  were  still  a  marquis,  or 
if  my  daughter  were  intended  to  marry  a  commoner,  why,  perhaps,  we 
might  give  you  the  preference. 

Beau.  A  commoner ! — we  are  all  commoners  in  France  now. 

Mme.  Deschap.  In  France,  yes  ;  but  there  is  a  nobility  still  left  in  the 
other  countries  in  Europe.  We  are  quite  aware  of  your  good  qualities, 
and  don't  doubt  that  you  will  find  some  lady  more  suitable  to  your  pre- 
tensions. We  shall  be  always  happy  to  see  you  as  an  acquaintance,  M. 
Beauseant! — My  dear  child,  the  carriage  will  be  here  presently,  (goes  to 
Pauline.) 

Beau.  Say  no  more,  madam  ! — say  no  more  !  (aside)  Refused  !  and 
by  a  merchant's  daughter  ! — refused  !  It  will  be  all  over  Lyons  before 
sunset!  1  will  go  and  bury  myself  in  my  chateau,  study  philosophy, 
and  turn  woman-hater!  Refused  !  They  ought  to  be  sent  to  a  mad- 
house !  (aloud)  Ladies,  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  a  very  good  morn- 
ing. [Exit,  l.  2  e. 

Mme.  Dkscuap.  How  forward  these  men  are! — I  think,  child,  we 
kept  up  our  dignity.  Any  girl,  however  inexperienced,  knows  how  to 
accept  an  offer,  but  it  requires  a  vast  deal  of  address  to  refuse  one  with 
proper  condescension  and  disdain.  I  used  to  practise  it  at  school  with 
the  dancing-master. 

Enter  Damas,  l  2  e. 

Damas  (a).  Good  morning,  cousin  Deschappelles.  Well,  Paulir.e, 
are  you  recovered  from  last  night's  ball  1  So  many  triumphs  must  be 
very  fatiguing.  Even  M.  Glavis  sighed  most  piteously  when  you  de- 
parted ;  but  that  might  be  the  effect  of  the  supper. 

Paulink.  M.  Glavis,  indeed  ! 

Mme.  Deschap.  M.  Glavis? — as  if  my  daughter  would  think  of.M. 
Glavis  ! 

Damas.  Hey-day  !  why  not  1  His  father  left  him  a  very  pretty  for- 
tune, and  his  birth  is  higher  than  yours,  cousin  Deschappelles.  But 
perhaps  you  are  looking  to  M.  Beauseant — his  father  was  a  marquis  be- 
fore the  Revolution. 

Pauline.  M.  Beauseant!     Cousin,  you  delight  in  tormenting  me  ! 

Mme.  Deschap.  Don't  mind  him,  Pauline!  CousimDamas,  you  have 
no  susceptibility  of  feeling — there  is  a  certain  indelicacy  in  all  your 
ideas.  M.  Beauseant  knows  already  that  he  is  no  match  for  my  daugh- 
ter ! 

Damas.  Pooh!  pooh!  one  would  think  you  intended  your  daughter 
to  marry  a  prince  ! 

Mme.  Deschap.  Well,  and  if  I  did  ? — what  then  1  Many  a  foreign 
prince 

Damas  (interrupting  her).  Foreign  prince! — foreign  fiddlestick! — you 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  such  nonsense  at  your  time  of  life,  (crosses  r.) 


ACT  I.]  THE    LADV    OF    LYONS.  17 

Mke;  Desciiyp.  My  time  of  life !  That  is  an  expression  never  ap- 
plied to  any  lady  till  she  is  sixty-nine  and  three-quarters,  and  only  then 
by  the  clergyman  of  the  parish  ! 

Enter  Servant,  l.  2  e. 

Servant.  Madam,  the  carriage  is  at  the  door.  [Exit,  L,  2  e. 

Mme.  Deschap.  Come,  child,  put  on  your  bonnet — you  really  have  a 
very  thoroughbred  air — not  at  all  like  your  poor  father,  (fondly)  Ah, 
you  little  coquette  !  when  a  young  lady  is  always  making  mischief,  it  is 
a  sure  sign  that  she  takes  after  her  mother  ! 

Pauline.  Good  day,  cousin  Damas — and  a  better  humor  to  you.  {go- 
ing back  to  the  (able,  and  taking  the  flowers)  Who  could  have  sent  me  these 
flowers?  [Exeunt  Pauline  and  Madame  Desciiappellek,  l.  2  e. 

Damas.  That  would  be  an  excellent  girl  if  her  head  had  not  been 
turned.  I  fear  she  is  now  become  incorrigible  !  Zounds,  what  a  lucky 
fellow  I  am  to  be  still  a  bachelor!  They  may  talk  of  the  devotion  of 
the  sex — but  the  most  faithful  attachment  in  life  is  that  of  a  woman  in 
love — with  herself.  [Exit,  l.  2  e. 


SCENE  II. — The  exterior  of  a  small  village  inn — sign  "  The  Golden  Lion  " 
— a  few  leagues  from  Lyons,  which  is  seen  at  a  distance. 

Beau,  (behind  the  scenes,  r.).  Yes,  you  may  bait  the  horses  ;  we  shall 
rest  here  an  hour. 

Enter  Beauseant  and  Glavis,  r. 

Glavis.  Really,  my  dear  Beauseant,  consider  that  I  have  promised  to 
spend  a  day  or  two  with  you  at  your  chateau — that  I  am  quite  at  your 
mercy  for  my  entertainment — and  yet  you  are  as  silent  and  as  gloomy 
as  a  mute  at  a  funeral,  or  an  Englishman  at  a  party  of  pleasure. 

Bead.  Bear  with  me! — the  fact  is,  that  1  am  miserable. 

Gla.  You,  the  richest  and  gayest  bachelor  in  Lyons  ? 

Beau.  It  is  because  I  am  a  bachelor  that  I  am  miserable.  Thou 
knowest  Paulina — the  only  daughter  of  the  rich  merchant,  M.  Deschap- 
pelles? 

Gla.  Know  her  1 — who  does  not  ? — as  pretty  as  Venus,  and  as  proud 
as  Juno. 

Beau.  Her  taste  is  worse  than  her  pride,  {drawing  himself  up)  Know. 
G'avis,  she  has  actually  refused  me  ! 

Gla.  (aside).  So  she  has  me  ! — very  consoling  !  In  all  cases  of  heart- 
ache the  application  of  another  man's  disappointment  draws  out  (he 
pain  and  allays  the  irritation,  (aloud)   Refused  you  !  and  wherefore! 

Beau.  I  know  not,  unless  it  be  because  the  Revolution  swept  away 
my  father's  title  of  Marquis — and  she  will  not  many  a  commoner.  Now, 
as  we  have  no  noblemen  left  in  France — as  we  are  all  citizens  and 
equals,  she  can  only  hope  that,  in  spite  of  the  war,  some  English  Milord 
or  German  Count  will  risk  his  life,  by  coming  to  Lyons,  that  this  fill:  du 
Ro'.nrier  may  condescend  to  accept  him.  Refused  me,  and  with  scorn  ! 
By  Heaven,  I'll  not  submit  to  it  tamely;  I'm  in  a  perfect  fever  of  mor- 
tification and  rage.     Refuse  me,  indeed  !   (crosses  r.) 

Gla.  Be  comforted,  my  dear  fellow — I  will  tell  you  a  secret.  For 
the  same  reason  she  refused  me  ! 

Beau.  You!— that's  a  very  different  matter!  But  give  me  your 
hand,  Glavis — we'll  think  of  some  plan  to  humble  her.  Mille  diabics !  I 
should  like  to  see  her  married  to  a  strolling  player  !  (crosses  l  ) 


18  'CHE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  [ACT  I. 

Enter  Landlord  from  the  Inn,  l.  d.  in  f. 

Landlord.  Your  servant,  citizen  Beauseant — servant,  sir.  Perhaps 
you  will  take  dinner  before  you  proceed  to  your  chateau ;  our  larder  is 
most  plentifully  supplied. 

Beau.  I  have  no  appetite. 

Gla.  Nor  I.  Still  it  is  bad  travelling  on  an  empty  stomach.  What 
have  you  got  ]  {takes  the  bill  of  fare  from  the  Landlord,  who  has  crossed  c. 
Shout  without :  t:  Long  live  the  Prince  ! — long  live  the  Prince  !  ") 

Bead.  The  Prince ! — what  Prince  is  that  7  I  thought  we  had  no 
princes  left  in  France. 

Land.  Ha,  ha  !  the  lads  always  call  him  Prince.  He  has  just  won  the 
prize  in  the  shooting  match,  and  they  are  taking  him  home  in  triumph. 

Beau.  Him  !  and  who's  Mr.  Him  ? 

Land.  Who  should  he  be  but  the  pride  of  the  village,  Claude  Mel- 
notte  ]     Of  course  you  have  heard  of  Claude  Mehiotte  ? 

Gla  {giving  back  Ihe  bill  of  fare).  Never  had  that  honor.  Soup — rag- 
out of  hare — roast  chicken,  and,  in  short,  all  you  have! 

Beau.   The  son  of  old  Melnotte,  the  gardener  ] 

Land.  Exactly  so — a  wonderful  young  man. 

Beau.   How  wonderful  ?    Are  his  cabbages  better  than  other  people's  ? 

Land.  Nay,  he  don't  garden  any  more ;  his  father  left  him  well  off. 
He's  only  a  genius. 

Gla   A  what  ? 

Land.  A  genius! — a  man  who  can  do  every  thing  in  life  except  any- 
thing that's  useful — that's  a  genius. 

Beau.  You  raise  my  curiosity — proceed. 

Land.  Well,  then,  about  four  years  ago,  old  Melnotte  died,  and  left  his 
son  well  to  do  in  the  world.  We  then  all  observed  that  a  great  change 
came  over  young  Claude ;  he  took  to  reading  and  Latin,  and  hired  a  pro- 
fessor from  Lyons,  who  had  so  much  in  his  head  that  he  was  forced  to  wear 
a  great  full-bottom  wig  to  cover  it.  Then  he  took  a  fencing-master, 
and  a  dancing-master,  and  a  music-master ;  and  then  he  learned  to 
paint ;  and  at  last  it  was  said  that  young  Claude  was  to  go  to  Paris, 
and  set  up  for  a  painter.  The  lads  laughed  at  him  at  first ;  but  he  is  a 
stout  fellow,  is  Claude,  and  as  brave  as  a  lion,  and  soon  tau°ht  them  to 
laugh  the  wrong  side  of  their  mouths ;  and  now  all  the  boys  swear  by 
him,  and  all  the  girls  pray  for  him. 

Beau.  A  promising  youth,  certainly  !  And  why  do  they  call  him 
Prince  ] 

Land.  Partly  because  he  is  at  the  head  of  them  all,  and  partly  be- 
cause he  has  such  a  proud  way  with  him,  and  wears  such  fine  clothes — 
and,  in  short,  looks  like  a  prince. 

Beau.  And  what  could  have  turned  the  foolish  fellow's  brain  ?  The 
Revolution,  I  suppose  % 

Land.  Yes — the  revolution  that  turns  us  all  topsy-turvy — the  revolu- 
tion of  Love. 

Beau.  Romantic  young  Corydon  !     And  with  whom  is  he  in  love  1 

Land.  Why — but  it  is  a  secret,  gentlemen. 

Beau.  Oh,  certainly. 

Land.  Why,  then,  I  hear  from  his  mother,  good  soul,  that  it  is  no  less 
a  person  than  the  Beauty  of  Lyons,  Pauline  Deschappelles. 

Beau  and  Gla.  Ha,  ha  !     Capital!  (Beauseant  crosses  to  Glavis.) 

Land.  You  may  laugh,  but  it  is  as  true  as  1  stand  here. 

Beau.   And  what  does  the  Beauty  of  Lyons  say  to  his  suit  ? 

Land.  Lord,  sir,  she  never  even  condescended  to  look  at  him,  though 
when  he  was  a  boy  he  worked  in  her  father's  garden. 


ACT  I.]  THE    LAD!    OF    LYONS.  19 

Beau.  Arc  you  sure  of  that! 

Land.  His  mother  says  that  Mademoiselle  does  not  know  him  by 
Bight. 

Beau,  (taking  Glavis  aside).  I  have  hit  it — I  have  it — here  is  our  re- 
venge !     Here  is  a  prince  for  our  damsel.     Do  you  take  me  ? 

Gla.  Deuce  take  ine  if  I  do  ! 

Beau.  Blockhead  ! — it's  as  clear  as  a  map.  What  if  we  could  make 
this  elegant  clown  pass  himself  off  as  a  foreign  prince  ? — lend  him  money, 
clothes,  equipage  for  the  purpose? — make  him  propose  to  Pauline  ? — 
marry  Pauline?     Would  it  not  be  delicious  ? 

Gla.  Ha,  ha  !  Excellent!  But  how  shall  we  support  the  necessary 
expenses  of  his  highness  ] 

Beau.  Pshaw!  Revenge  is  worth  a  much  larger  sacrifice  than  a  few 
hundred  louis;  as  for  details,  my  valet  is  the  trustiest  fellow  in  the 
world,  and  shall  have  the  appointment  of  his  highness's  establishment. 
Let's  go  to  him  at  once,  and  see  if  he  be  really  this  Admirable  Crichton. 

Gla.  With  all  my  heart;  but  the  dinner? 

Beau.  Always  thinking  of  dinner  !  Hark  ye,  landlord;  how  far  is  it 
to  young  Melnotte's  cottage?     1  should  like  to  see  such  a  prodigy. 

Land  Turn  down  the  lane — then  strike  across  the  common— and 
you  will  see  his  mother's  cottage.  [Mrit,  r>.  f. 

Beau.  True,  he  lives  with  his  mother,  (aside)  We  will  not  trust  to  an 
old  woman's  discretion;  better  send  for  him  hither.  I'll  just  step  in 
and  write  him  a  note.     Come,  Glavis. 

Gla.  Yes;  Beauseant,  Glavis  &  Co  ,  manufacturers  of  princes,  whole- 
sale and  retail — an  uncommonly  genteel  line  of  business.  But  why  so 
grave  ? 

Beau.  You  think  only  of  the  sport — I  of  the  revenge. 

[Exeunt  within  the  inn,  c  in  f. 

SCENE  III. — The  interior  of  Melnotte's  cottage ;  flowers  placed  h 

there  ;  a  guitar  on  an  oaken  table,  with  a  portfolio,  etc.  ;  a  picture  mi  an 
easel,  covered  by  a  curtain  ;  fencing-foils  crossed  over  the  mantel-piece  ;  an 
attempt  at  refinement  in  spite  of  the  homeliness  of  the  furniture,  etc.  ;  a 
staircase  to  the  right  conducts  to  the  upper  story ;  D.  L.  F.  ;  practicable  win- 
dow, C.  F. 

The  Widow  descends  the  stairs  during  the  shouts. 

(Shout  without,  distant,  l.  u.  e.).  "  Long  live  Claude  Melnotte  !"  "  Long 
live  the  Prince !" 

Widow  Melnotte.  Hark!  there's  my  dear  son — carried  off  the  prize, 
I'm  sure;  and  now  he'll  want  to  treat  them  all.  (shouts  nearer,  "  Long 
live  the  Prince.") 

Claude  Melnotte  (without,  l).  What!  }*ou  will  not  come  in,  my 
friends?  Well,  well — there's  a  trifle  to  make  merry  elsewhere.  Good 
dav  to  you  all — good  day!  ('Shouts,  "Hurrah!  Long  live  Prince 
Claude!") 

Enter  Claude  Melnotte,  l.  d.  in  p.,  with  a  rifle  in  his  hand.     K  goes  to 
the  Widow,  and  kisses  her. 

Mel.  Give  me  joy,  dear  mother — I've  won  the  prize — never  missed 
one  shot !      Is  it  not  handsome,  this  gun  ? 

Widow.   Humph!     Well,  what  is  it  worth,  Claude? 

Mel.  Worth  !  What  is  a  ribband  worth  to  a  soldier?  Worth  I  every- 
thing !     Glory  is  priceless  !" 


20  THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  [,VCT   I. 

Widow.  Leave  glory  to  great  folks.  Ah,  Claude,  Claude  !  castles  in 
the  air  cost  a  vast  deal  to  keep  up.  How  is  all  this  to  end  1  What 
good  does  it  do  thee  to  learn  Latin,  and  sing  songs,  and  play  on  the 
guitar,  and  fence,  and  dance,  and  paint  pictures  1  All  very  fine  ;  but 
what  does  it  bring  in  1 

Mel.  Wealth  !  wealth,  my  mother  !  Wealth  to  the  mind — wealth  to 
the  heart— high  thoughts — bright  dreams — the  hope  of  fame — the  am- 
bition to  be  worthier  to  love  Pauline. 

Widow.  My  poor  son  ! — the  young  lady  will  never  think  of  thee. 

Mel.  Do  the  stars  think  of  us  1  Yet  if  the  prisoner  see  them  shine 
into  his  dungeon,  wouldst  thou  bid  him  turn  away  from  their  lustre  1 
Even  so  from  this  low  cell,  poverty,  I  lift  my  eyes  to  Pauline  and  forget 
my  chains,  (puts  down  his  gun  and  cap  near  (lie  staircase,  R.  u.  e.,  the 
W 'mow  takes  a  chair  and  sits  it.  c.  Goes  to  the  picture  and  draws  aside  the 
curtain)  See,  this  is  her  image — painted  from  memory.  Oil,  how  the 
canvas  wrongs  her  !  (takes  up  the  brush  and  throws  it  aside)  I  shall  never 
be  a  painter.  I  can  paint  no  likeness  but  one,  and  that  is  above  all  art. 
I  would  turn  soldier — France  needs  soldiers  ! — but  to  leave  the  air  that 
Pauline  breathes  !  What  is  the  hour  1 — so  late  1  {takes  a  chair  and  sits, 
h.  c  )  1  will  tell  thee  a,  secret,  mother.  Thou  knowest  that  for  the  last 
six  weeks  I  have  sent  every  day  the  rarest  flowers  to  Pauline  1 — she 
wears  them.  I  have  seen  them  on  her  breast.  Ah,  and  then  the  whole 
universe  seemed  filled  with  odors  !  I  have  now  grown  more  bold — I 
have  poured  worship  into  poetry — I  have  sent  the  verses  to  Pauline — I 
have  signed  them  with  my  own  name.  My  messenger  ought  to  be  back 
by  this  time.      I  bade  him  wait  for  the  answer. 

Widow.  And  what  answer  do  you  expect.  Claude? 

Mel.  \rises).  That  which  the  Queen  of  Navarre  sent  to  the  poor  trou- 
badour: _  "  Let  me  see  the  Oracle  that  can  tell  nations  I  am  beautiful !" 
She  will  admit  me.  I  shall  hear  her.  speak — I  shall  meet  her  eyes — 
I  shall  read  upon  her  cheek  the  sweet  thoughts  that  translate  themselves 
into  blushes.  Then, — then,  oh,  then — she  may  forget  that  I  am  the  pea- 
sant's son  !   (crosses  to  l.) 

Widow.  Nay,  if  she  will  but  hear  thee  talk,  Claude. 

Mel.  I  foresee  it  all.  She  will  tell  me  that  desert  is  the  true  rank. 
She  will  give  me  a  badge — a  flower — a  glove  !  Oh,  rapture  !  (crosses  n.) 
I  shall  join  the  Armies  of  the  Republic — I  shall  rise — I  shall  win  a  name 
that  beauty  will  not  blush  to  bear.  I  shall  return  with  the  right  to  say 
to  her,  "  See,  how  love  does  not  level  the  proud,  but  raises  the  hum- 
ble!" Oh,  how  my  heart  swells  within  me!  Oh,  what  glorious  pro- 
phets of  the  future  are  youth  and  hope!  (knock  at  the  D.  in  f.)  Who's 
there  7 

Gaspar  (without).  Gaspar. 

Mel.  Come  in.  {the  Widowt  opens  the  door.) 

Enter  Gaspar,  d.  in  f. 

Mel.  Welcome,  Gaspar.  welcome.  Where  is  the  letter?  Why  do 
you  turn  away,  man  1  Where  is  the  letter?  (Gaspar  gives  him  one) 
This  !  This  is  mine,  the  one  I  entrusted  to  thee.  Didst  thou  not  leave 
it] 

Galpar.  Yes,  I  left  it. 

Mel.    My  own  verses  returned  to  me.     Nothing  else! 

Gaspar.  Thou  wilt  be  proud  to  hear  how  thy  messenger  was  honored. 
For  thy  sake,  Melnotte,  I  have  borne  that  which  no  Frenchman  can 
bear  without  disgrace. 

Mel.  Disgrace,  Gaspar  !     Disgrace  1 


ACT  I.]  THE    LAD?    OF    LYuNS.  21 

Gaspak.  I  gave  thy  letter  to  the  porter,  who  passed  it  from  lackey 
to  lackey  till  it  reached  the  lady  it  was  meant  for. 

Mel.  It  reached  her.  then — you  are  sure  of  that!  It  reached  her — 
well,  well ' 

Gaspar.  It  reached  her.  and  was  returned  to  me  with  blows.  Dost 
hear,  Melnotte  ?  with  blows  !  Death  !  are  we  slaves  still,  that  we  are  to 
be  thus  dealt  with,  we  peasants  7 

Mel.  With  blows  7     No,  Gispar,  no;  not  blows. 

Gaspar.  I  could  show  thee  the  marks  if  it  were  not  so  deep  a  shame 
to  bear  them.  The  lackey  who  tossed  thy  letter  into  the  mire  swore 
that  his  lady  and  her  mother  never  were  so  insulted.  What  could  thy 
letter  contain,  Claude  7 

Mel.  {looking  over  the  letter).  Not  a  line  that  a  serf  might  not  have 
written  to  an  Empress.     No,  not  one. 

Gaspar.  They  promise  thee  the  same  greeting  they  gave  me,  if  thou 
wilt  pass  that  way.     Shall  we  endure  this,  Claude  7 

Mel.  {wringing  Gaspar's  hand).  Forgive  me,  the  fault  is  mine ;  I 
have  brought  this  on  thee;  I  will  not  forget  it;  thou  shalt  be  avenged. 
The  heartless  insolence  ! 

Gaspar.  Thou  art  moved,  Melnotte  ;  think  not  of  me ;  I  would  so 
through  fire  and  water  to  serve  thee  ;  but — a  blow  !  It  is  not  the  bruise 
that  galls— it  is  the  blush,  Melnotte.  (going  ) 

Mel.  Say,  what  message  7  How  insulted  7  AVherefore  7  What  the 
offence  7 

Gaspar.  Did  you  not  write  to  Pauline  Deschappelles,  the  daughter  of 
the  rich  merchant  7 

Mel.  Well  7 

Gaspar.  And  are  you  not  a  peasant — a  gardener's  son  7  that  was  the 
offence.     Sleep  on  it,  Melnotte.     Blows  to  a  French  citizen  ;  blows  ! 

[Exit,  d.  in  f. 

Widow.  Now  you  are  cured,  Claude. 

Mel.  (tearing  "the  letter).  So  do  1  scatter  her  image  to  the  winds — I 
will  stop  her  in  the  open  streets — I  will  insult  her — I  will  beat  her  me- 
nial ruffians — I  will (turns  suddenly  to  Widow)  Mother,  am  I  hump- 
backed— deformed — hideous  ? 

Widow.  You ! 

Mel.  A  coward — a  thief — a  liar  7 

Widow.  You ! 

Mel.  Or  a  dull  fool — a  vain,  drivelling,  brainless  idiot  7 

Widow.  No,  no. 

Mel.  What  am  I  then — worse  than  all  these  7  Why,  I  am  a  peasant. 
What  has  a  peasant  to  do  with  love  7  Vain  revolutions,  why  lavish 
your  cruelty  on  the  great  7  Oh,  that  we — we,  the  hewers  of  wood  and 
drawers  of  water — had  been  swept  away,  so  that  the  proud  might  learn 
whnt  the  world  would  be  without  us  !  (2)ac€S  ^ie  ^a9e  excitedly.  Knock  at 
the  d.  in  f.) 

Enter  Servant  jrom  the  Inn,  d.  in  f. 

Servant.  A  letter  for  Citizen  Melnotte. 

Mel.  A  letter  !  from  her  perhaps — who  sent  thee? 

Sei;v.  (it.).  Why,  Monsieur — I  mean  Citizen  Beauseant,  who  stops 
to  dine  at  the  Golden  Lion,  on  his  way  to  his  chateau. 

Mel.  Beauseant !  (reads)  "Young  man,  I  know  thy  secret — thou 
lovest  above  thy  station  ;  if  thou  hast  wit,  courage,  and  discretion,  I  can 
secure  to  thee  the  realization  of  thy  most  sanguine  hopes  ;  and  the  sole 
condition  I  ask  in  return  is,  that  thou  shalt  be  steadfast  to  thine  own 
ends.    I  shall  demand  from  thee  a  solemn  oath  to  marry  her  whom  thou 


22  THE    LADY    OF    LTOXS.  [,VCT  II. 

lovest ;  to  bear  her  to  thine  home  on  thy  wedding  night.  I  am  serious — 
if  thou  wouldst  learn  more,  lose  not  a  moment,  but  follow  the  bearer  of 
tliis  letter  to  thy  friend  and  patron,  Charles  Beauseant."  Can  1  be- 
lieve my  eyes  1  Are  our  own  passions  the  sorcerers  that  raise  up  for 
us  spirits  of  good  or  evil?  1  will  go  instantly.  [Exit  Servant,  d.  in  f. 

Widow.  What  is  this,  Claude  1 

Mel.  "Marry  her  whom  thou  lovest"—" bear  her  to  thine  own 
home."  Oh,  revenge  and  love;  which  of  you  is  the  stronger?  {gazing 
on  the  picture)  Sweet  face,  thou  smilest  on  me  from  the  canvas;  weak 
fool  that  I  am,  do  I  then  love  her  still  ?  No,  it  is  the  vision  of  my  own 
romance  that  I  have  worshipped;  it  is  the  reality  to  which  I  bring  scorn 
for  scorn.  Adieu,  mother  !  I  will  return  anon.  (Exit  Widow  up  the 
staircase)  M}r  brain  reels — the  earth  swims  before  me.  (looks  again  at  the 
letter)  "  Marry  her  whom  thou  lovest."  No,  it  is  not  a  mockery  ;  I  do 
not  dream  !  [Exit,  d.  in  f. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE.  I. — The  gardens  of  M.  Deschappelles'  house  at  Lyons — the  house 
seen  at  the  back  of  the  stage. 

Enter  Beauseant  and  Glavis  from  the  house,  l.  s.  e. 

Beau.  Well,  what  think  you  of  my  plot  ?  Has  it  not  succeeded  to  a 
miracle  1  The  instant  that  I  introduced  his  Highness  the  Prince  of  Como 
to  the  pompous  mother  and  the  scornful  daughter,  it  was  all  over  with 
them;  he  came — he  saw — he  conquered ;  and,  though  it  is  not  many 
days  since  he  arrived,  they  have  already  promised  him  the  hand  of  Pau- 
line. 

Gla.  It  is  lucky,  though,  that  you  told  them  his  highness  travelled 
incognito,  for  fear  the  Directory  (who  are  not  very  fond  of  princes) 
should  lay  him  by  the  heels;  for  he  has  a  wonderful  wish  to  keep  up 
his  rank,  and  scatters  our  gold  about  with  as  much  coolness  as  if  he 
were  watering  his  own  flower-pots. 

Beau.  True,  he  is  damnably  extravagant ;  I  think  the  sly  dog  does  it 
out  of  malice.  However,  it  must  be  owned  that  he  reflects  credit  on  his 
loyal  subjects,  and  makes  a  very  pretty  figure  in  his  fine  clothes,  with 
my  diamond  snuff-box. 

Gla.  And  my  diamond  ring !  But  do  you  think  he  will  be  firm  to 
the  last  ?  I  fancy  I  see  symptoms  of  relenting  ;  he  will  never  keep  up 
his  rank  if  he  once  lets  out  his  conscience. 

Beau.  His  oath  binds  him  !  he  cannot  retract  without  being  for- 
sworn, and  those  low  fellows  are  always  superstitious  !  But,  as  it  is,  I 
tremble  lestlie  be  discovered  ;  that  bluff  Colonel  Damas  (Madame  Des- 
chappelles' cousin)  evidently  suspects  him ;  we  must  make  haste  and 
conclude  the  farce  ;  I  have  thought  of  a  plan  to  end  it  this  very  day. 

Gla.  This  very  day  !     Poor  Pauline !  her  dream  will  soon  be  over. 

Brau.  Yes,  this  day  they  shall  be  married;  this  evening,  according 
to  his  oath,  he  shall  carry  his  bride  to  the  Golden  Lion,  and  then  pomp, 
equipage,  retinue,  and  title  all  shall  vanish  at  once ;  and  her  Highness 
the  Princess  shall  find  that  she  has  refused  the  son  of  a  Marquis,  to 
marry  the  son  of  a  gardener.     Oh,  Pauline !  once  so  loved,  now  hated, 


ACT  II  ]  TnE    LADY    OF    LTOXS.  23 

yet  still  not  relinquished,  thou   shalt  drain   the  cup  to  the  dregs — thou 
shalt  know  what  it  is  to  be  humbled  !   (they  go  l.) 

Enter  from  the  house,  l.  s.  e.,  Melxotte,  as  the  Prince  of  Como,  leading  in 
Pauline  ;  Madame  Deschappelles.  fanning  herself ;  one?  Colonel 
Damas.  Beauseant  and  Glavis  bow  respectfully.  Pauline  and  Mel- 
notte  walk  apart. 

Mme  Dkschap.  Good  morning,  gentlemen;  really  I  am  so  fatigued 
with  laughter;  the  dear  Prince  is  so  entertaining.  What  wit  be  has ! 
Any  one  may  see  that  ho  lias  spent  his  whole  life  in  courts. 

Damas  (r.).  And  what  the  deuce  do  you  know-  about  courts,  cousin 
Deschappelles  1  You  women  regard  men  just  as  you  buy  books — you 
never  care  about  what  is  in  them,  but  how  they  are  bound  and  lettered. 
'Sdeath,  I  don't  think  you  would  even  look  at  your  Bible  if  it  had  not  a 
title  to  it. 

Mme.  Deschap.  (r.  c.'>.  How  coarse  you  are,  cousin  Damas  !  quite  the 
manners  of  a  barrack — you  don't  deserve  to  be  one  of  our  family  :  really, 
we  must  drop  your  acquaintance  when  Pauline  marries.  I  cannot  pat- 
ronize any  relations  that  would  discredit  my  future  son-in-law,  Prince 
of  Como. 

Mel.  fa.  advancing).  These  are  beautiful  gardens,  madam. 

Mme.  Deschap.  Does  your  highness  really  think  so  ? 

Mel.  They  are  laid  out  in  the  best  taste  ;  who  planned  them  ?  (Beau- 
seant and  Glavis  retire.) 

Mme.  Deschap.  A  gardener  named  Mclnotte,  your  highness — an  hon- 
est man  who  knew  his  station.  I  can't  say  as  much  for  his  son — a  pre- 
suming fellow,  who — ha,  ha  !  actually  wrote  verses — such  doggerel ! — 
to  my  daughter. 

Pauline.  Yes,  how  you  would  have  laughed  at  them,  Prince  !  you 
who  write  such  beautiful  verses! 

Mel.  This  Melnotte  must  be  a  monstrous  impudent  person  ! 

Damas.  Is  he  good-looking  ? 

Mme  Deschap.  I  never  notice  such  canaille — an  ugly,  mean-looking 
clown,  if  I  remember  right. 

Damas.  Yet  I  heard  your  porter  say  he  was  wonderfully  like  his  high- 
ness. 

Mel.   (taking  snuff).  You  are  complimentary. 

Mme.  Deschap.  For  shame,  cousin  Damas!  like  the  Prince,  indeed  ! 

Pauline.  Like  you!  Ah,  mother,  like  our  beautiful  Prince!  I'll 
never  speak  to  you  again,  cousin  Damas.  (Pauline,  Madame  Deschap- 
ples,  and  Damas  retire,  r.     Beauseant  and  Glavis  advance,  l.) 

Mel.  (aside).  Humph — rank  is  a  great  beautifier !  I  never  passed  for 
an  Apollo  while  I  was  a  peasant  ;  if  I  am  so  handsome  as  a  prince,  what 
should  I  be  as  an  emperor!  (aloud)  Monsieur  Beauseant,  will  you  hon- 
or me  '?  (offers  snuff.) 

Beau.  No,  your  highness  ;  I  have  no  small  vices. 

Mel.  Nay.  if  it  were  a  vice,  you'd  be  sure  to  have  it.  Monsieur  Beau- 
seant.  (Madame  Deschappelles  and  Pauline  advance,  a.  c.) 

Mme.  Dksciiap.   Ha  !  ha!  how  very  severe — what  wit  ! 

Beau,  (in  a  rage,  and  aside).  Curse  his  impertinence. 

Mme.  Deschap.  (a).  What  a  superb  snuff-box  ! 

Pauline  (r.  a).  And  what  a  beautiful  ring  ! 

Mel.  You  like  the  box — a  trifle — interesting  perhaps  from  associations 
— a  present  from  Louis  XIV.  to  my  great-great-grandmother.  Honor 
me  by  accepting  it. 

Beau,  (plucking  him  by  the  sleeve).   How — what  the  devil!  my  box — 


24  THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  [ACT  II. 

are  you  mad  1  It  is  worth  five  hundred  1  iuis.  (Madame  Deschapplles 
shows  the  box  to  Damas.) 

Mel.  {unheeding  him,  and  turning  to  Pauline).  And  you  like  this  ring  1 
Ah,  it  has,  indeed,  a  lustre  since  your  eyes  have  shone  on  it.  {placing 
it  on  her  finger)  Henceforth  hold  me,  sweet  enchantress,  the  Slave  of  the 
Ring. 

Gla.  (puliing  him).  Stay,  stay — what  are  you  about!  My  maiden 
aunt's  legacy — a  diamond  of  the  first  water.  You  shall  be  hanged  lor 
swindling,  sir. 

Mel.  {pretending  not  to  hear).  It  is  curious,  this  ring;  it  is  the  one 
with  which  my  grandfather,  the  Doge  of  Venice,  married  the  Adriatic ! 
(Mad AMR  and  Pauline  examine  the  ring,  and  retire,  vi.) 

Mel.  (to  Beauseant  and  Glavis).  Fie,  gentlemen  !  princes  must  be 
generous,  (turns  to  Damas,  who  is  it.  c,  and  loho  watches  them  closely) 
These  kind  friends  have  my  interest  so  much  at  heart,  that  they  are  as 
careful  of  my  property  as  if  it  were  their  own. 

Beau,  atid  Gla.  (confusedly).  Ha!  ha!  very  good  joke  that  (appear  to 
remonstrate  ivith  Melnotte  in  dumb  show.) 

Damas.  What's  all  that  whispering  1  I  am  sure  there  is  some  juggle 
here;  hang  me,  if  I  think  he  is  an  Italian  after  all.  Gad,  I'll  try  him. 
Servitore  umillissimo,  Eccellenza.*  (Claude  looks  at  Beauseant  for  in- 
formation.) 

Mel.  Hum — what  does  he  mean,  I  wonder  1 

Damas.  Godo  di  vedervi  in  buona  salute. f 

Mel.  Hem — hem!  (crosses,  k.  ) 

Damas.  Fa  be]  tempo — che  si  dice  di  nuovo  1$ 

Mel.  Well,  sir,  what's  all  that  gibberish  ? 

Damas.  Oil,  oh  !  only  Italian,  your  highness — the  Prince  of  Cotno 
does  not  understand  his  own  language  ! 

Mel.  Not  as  you  pronounce  it;   who  the  deuce  could  1   (  goes  up,  c.) 

Mme.  Deschap.  Ha  !  ha  !  cousin  Damas,  never  pretend  to  what  you 
don't  know.  (  goes  to  Melnotte.) 

Pauline.  Ha!  ha!  cousin  Damas  ;  you  speak  Italian,  indeed !  (makes 
a  mocking  gesture  at  him,  and  joins  !\J Melnotte  and  Madame  Descuap- 
pelles.) 

Beau,  (to  Glavis).  Clever  dog  !  how  ready  ! 

Gla.  (l.)  Ready,  yes;  with  my  diamond  ring  !  Damn  his  readiness. 
(thei/  retire  a  few  paces.) 

Damas.  Laugh  at  me !  laugh  at  a  colonel  in  the  French  Army  ! — the 
fellow's  an  impostor  ;  I  know  he  is.  I  11  see  if  he  understands  fighting 
as  well  as  he  does  Italian,  (goes  up  to  him,  and  touches  him  upon  the  shoul- 
der. Melnotte  bows  to  the  Ladies  and  comes  fonoard)  Sir,  you  are  a 
jackanapes  !     Can  you  construe  that] 

Mel.  No,  sir  ;  I  never  construe  affronts  in  the  presence  of  ladies  ;  by- 
and-by  I  shall  be  happy  to  take  a  lesson — or  give  one. 

Demas.  I'll  find  the  occasion,  never  fear! 

Mme.  Deschap.  Where  are  you  going,  cousin  1 

Damas.  To  correct  my  Italian.  [Exit  into  house,  l    s.  e. 

Beau.  (,'o  Glavis).  Let  us  after,  and  pacify  him ;  he  evidently  sus- 
pects something,  (going.) 

Gla.  Yes  ! — but  my  diamond  ring  ! 

Bkau.  And  my  box  !  We  are  over-taxed  fellow-subjects  !  we  must 
stop  the  supplies,  and  dethrone  the  prince. 

Gla.  Prince  ! — he  ought  to  be  heir-apparent  to  King  Stork. 

*  Your  Excellency's  most  bumble  servant.      1 1  am  glad  to  see  you  in  good  healtb. 
X  Fine  weatber.    TV'bat  news  is  tbere  ; 


AC  I'  II.]  HIE    LADY    OF    LTOKS.  25 

Exeunt  Beauseant   and   Glavis    into  house,   l.    s    e.      27m   Ladies   and 
Melnotte  advance. 

Mme.  Deschap.  (k).  Dare  I  ask  your  highness  to  forgive  my  cousin's 
insufferable  vulgarity  1 

Pauline  (l.).  Oh,  yes  ! — you  will  forgive  his  manner  for  the  sake  of 
his  heart. 

Mel.  (a).  And  the  sake  of  his  cousin.  Ah,  madam,  there  is  one 
comfort  in  rank — we  are  so  sure  of  our  position  that  we  are  not  easily 
affronted.  Besides,  M.  Damas  has  bought  the  right  of  indulgence  from 
his  Friends  by  never  showing  it  to  his  enemies. 

Paul.  Ah!  he  is  indeed  as  brave  in  action  as  lie  is  rude  in  speech. 
He  rose  from  the  ranks  to  his  present  grade,  and  in  two  years  ! 

Mel.   In  two  years  ! — two  years,  did  3-011  say  1 

Mme.  Deschap.  (aside).  I  don't  like  leaving  girls  alone  with  their  lov- 
eis ;  but,  with  a  prince,  it  would  be  so  ill-bred  to  be  prudish. 

[Exit  into  house,  l.  s.  e. 

Mel.  You  can  be  proud  of  your  connection  with  one  who  owes  his 
position  lo^  merit — not  birth. 

Pauline.  Why,  yes;  hut  still 

Mel.  Still  what," Pauline? 

Pauline.  There  is  something  glorious  in  the  heritage  of  command.  A 
man  who  has  ancestors  is  like  a  representative  of  the  past. 

Mel.  True  ;  but,  like  other  representatives,  nine  times  out  of  ten  he 
is  a  silent  member.  Ah,  Pauline  !  not  to  the  past,  but  to  the  future, 
looks  true  nobility,  and  finds  its  blazon  in  posterity. 

Pauline.  You  say  this  to  please  me,  who  have  no  ancestors;  lut 
you.  prince,  must  be  proud  of  so  illustrious  a  race! 

Mel.  No,  no!  I  would  not,  were  I  fifty  times  a  prince,  be  a  pen- 
sioner on  the  dead  !  I  honor  birth  and  ancestry  when  they  are  regard- 
ed as  the  incentives  to  exertion,  not  the  title-deeds  to  sloth  !  I  honor 
the  laurels  that  overshadow  the  graves  of  our  fathers — it  is  our  fathers  I 
emulate,  when  I  desire  that  beneath  the  evergreen  1  myself  have  planted 
my  own  ashes  may  repose  !  Dearest!  couldst  thou  but  see  with  my 
eyes ! 

Pauline.  I  cannot  forego  pride  when  I  look  on  thee,  aud  think  that 
tliou  lovest  me.  Sweet  Prince,  tell  me  again  of  thy  palace  by  the  lake 
of  Como  ;  it  is  so  pleasant  to  hear  of  thy  splendors  since  thou  didsl 
swear  to  me  that  they  would  be  desolate  without  Pauline ;  and  when 
thou  describes!  them,  it  is  with  a  mocking  lip  and  a  noble  scorn,  as  if 
custom  had  made  thee  disdain  greatness.  . 

Mel.  Nay,  dearest,  nay.  if  thou  wouldst  have  me  paint 
The  home  to  which,  could  love  fulfill  its  prayers, 
This  hand  would  lead  thee,  listen  !*     A  deep  vale 
Shut  out  by  Alpine  hills  from  the  rude  world; 
Near  a  clear  lake,  margin'd  by  fruits  of  gold 
And  whispering  myrtles  ;  glassing  softest  skies, 
As  cloudless,  save  with  rare  and  roseate  shadows 
As  I  would  have  thy  fate  ! 


*  The  reader  will  observe  that  Helnotte  evades  tlie  request  of  Pauline.  He  pro- 
ceeds to  describe  a  home,  which  he  does  not  say  l.e  possesses,  but  to  which  he  would 
1  a  1  Ler,  "  could  InvefulJUl  its  prayers,"  This  caution  is  iuteuded  as  a  reply  to  11  sa- 
gacious critic  who  censures  the  description  Ix  cause  it  is  not  an  exact  aud  prosaic  in- 
ventory of  the  characteristics  of  the  Lake  of  Comol  When  Melnotte,  for  instance, 
talks  of  birds  '•  that  syllable  the  name  of  Pauline  "  (by  the  way,  a  literal  translation 
from  an  Italian  poet),  he  is  not  thinking  of  ornithology,  but  probably  of  the  "  Ara- 
bian Nights."  lie  is  venting  the  extravagant  but  natural  enthusiasm  of  the  poet 
and  the  lover. 


26  THE    L.YDY    OF    LYONS.  [a  CI    [I, 

Pauline.  My  own  clear  lore  ! 

Claude  and  Pauline  pace  the  stage  during  this  speech,  and  at  the  end  Mel- 
notte  stands  L. 

Mel.  A  palace  lifting  to  eternal  summer 

Its  marble  walls,  from  out  a  glossy  bower 

Of  coolest  foliage,  musical  with  birds, 

Whose  songs  should  syllable  thy  name !     At  noon 

We'd  sit  beneath  the  arching  vinos,  and  wonder 

Why  Earth  could  be  unhappy,  while  the  Heavens 

Still  left  us  youth  and  love  !     We'd  have  no  friends 

That  were  not  lovers  ;  no  ambition,  save 

To  excel  them  all  in  love ;  we'd  read  no  books 

That  were  not  tales  of  love — that  we  might  smile 

To  think  how  poorly  eloquence  of  words 

Translates  the  poetry  of  hearts  like  ours! 

And  when  night  came,  amidst  the  breathless  Heavens, 

We'd  guess  what  star  should  be  our  home  when  love    . 

Becomes  immortal ;  while  the  perfumed  light 

Stole  through  the  mist  of  alabaster  lamps, 

And  every  air  was  heavy  with  the  sighs 

Of  orange  groves  and  music  from  sweet  lutes, 

And  murmurs  of  low  fountains  that  gush  forth 

1'  the  midst  of  roses  ! — Dost  thou  like  the  picture  1 
Pauline.  Oh,  as  the  bee  upon  the  flower,  I  hang 

Upon  the  honey  of  thy  eloquent  ton«U'j  ! 

Am  I  not  blest  1     And  if  I  love  too  wildly, 

Who  would  not  love  thee  like  Pauline  ? 
Mel.  (bitterly).  Oh,  false  one  ! 

It  is  the  prince  thou  lovest,  not  the  man  ; 

If  in  the  stead  of  luxury,  pomp,  and  power, 

I  had  painted  poverty,  and  toil,  and  care, 

Thou  hadst  found  no  honey  on  my  tongue  ;  Pauline, 

That  is  not  love  !   [crosses  n.) 
Pauline.  Thou  wrong'st  me,  cruel  Prince  ! 

At  first,  in  truth,  I  might  not  have  been  won, 

Save  through  the  weakness  of  a  flatter'd  pride  ; 

But  now — oh  !  trust  me — couldst  thou  fall  from  power 

And  sink 

Mel.  •        As  low  as  that  poor  gardener's  son 

Who  dared  to  lift  his  eyes  to  thee  1 
Pauline.  Even  then. 

Methinks  thou  wouldst  be  only  made  more  dear 

By  the  sweet  thought  that  I  could  prove  how  deep 

13  woman's  love !     We  are  like  the  insect*,  caught 

By  the  poor  glittering  of  a  garish  flame  ; 

But,  oh,  the  wings  once  scorch'd,  the  brightest  star 

Lures  us  no  more ;  and  by  the  fatal  light 

We  cling  till  death  !   (embrace.) 
Mel.  Angel ! 

(aside).  0  conscience  !  conscience  ! 

It  must  not  be — her  love  hath  grown  a  torture 

Worse  than  her  hate.     I  will  at  once  to  B?auseanf, 

And  -  ha  !  he  comes.     Sweet  love,  one  moment  leave  me. 

I  have  business  with  these  gentlemen — I — I 

Will  forthwith  join  you. 


ACT  II  ]  THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  27 

Enter  Beauseaxt  and  Glavis  ;  thoj  bow  to  Paulixk,  and  nmain  up  stage. 
Pauline.  Do  not  tarry  long  !  [Exit  into  house;  l.   s.  e. 
Beauseaxt  and  Glavis  advance. 

Mel.  (a).  Release  me  from  my  oath — I  will  not  marry  her  ! 

Beau.  Then  thou  art  perjured.  (Glavis  stands  l.) 

Mel.  No,  [  was  not  in  my  senses  when  I  swore  to  thee  to  marry  her  ! 
I  wTas  blind  to  all  but  her  scorn — deaf  to  all  but  my  passion  and  my 
rage  !     Give  me  back  my  poverty  and  my  honor. 

Beau.  It  is  too  late — you  must  marry  her  !  and  this  day.  I  have  a 
story  already  coined,  and  sure  to  pass  current.  This  Damas  suspects 
thee — lie  will  set  the  police  to  work — thou  wilt  be  detected — Pauline 
will  despise  and  execrate  thee.  Thou  wilt  be  sent  to  the  common  jail 
as  a  swindler. 

Mel.  Fiend  !  (crosses  to  r.) 

Beau.  And  in  the  heat  of  the  girl's  resentment  (you  know  of  what  re- 
sentment is  capable),  and  the  parents'  shame,  she  will  be  induced  to 
marry  the  first  that  offers — even  perhaps  your  humble  servant. 

Mel.  You!  No;  that  were  worse — for  thou  hast  no  mercy  !  I  will 
marry  her — I  will  keep  my  oath.  Quick,  then,  with  the  damnable  in- 
vention thou  art  hatching — quick,  if  thou  wouldst  not  have  me  strangle 
thee  or  myself,   (retires,  r  ) 

Gi.a.  What  a  tiger  !  Too  fierce  for  a  prince — he  ought  to  have  been 
the  Grand  Turk. 

Beau.  Enough — I  will  use  dispatch  ;  be  prepared. 
[Exeunt Beausbakt  and  Glavis  into  house,  l.  s.  e.   Melxotte  advances,  n. 

Enter  Damas,  from  the  house,  l.  s.  e.,  with  two  swords. 

Damas.  Now,  then,  sir,  the  ladies  are  no  longer  your  excuse.  I  have 
brought  you  a  couple  of  dictionaries  ;  let  us  see  if  your  highness  can  find 
out  the  Latin  for  bilbo. 

Mel.  Away,  sir  !     I  am  in  no  humor  for  jesting. 

Damas.  I  see  you  understand  something  of  the  grammar;  you  de- 
cline the  noun-substanlive  "  small-sword  "  with  great  ease;  but  that 
won't  do — you  must  take  a  lesson  in  parang. 

Mel.  Fool !  (crosses,  l.) 

Damas.  Sir,  as  sons  take  after  their  mother,  so  the  man  who  calls  me 
a  fool  insults  the  lady  who  bore  me;  there's  no  escape  for  you — fight 
you  shall,  or 

Mel.  (l.).  Oh,  enough  !  enough — take  your  ground,  (they  fight;  Da- 
mas is  disarmed.  Melxotte  takes  up  the  sword  and  returns  it  to  Damas 
respectfully)  A  just  punishment  to  the  brave  soldier  who  robs  the  State 
of  its  best  property — the  sole  right  to  his  valor  and  his  life. 

Damas  (r.).  Sir,  you  fence  exceedingly  well ;  you  must  be  a  man  of 
honor — I  don't  care  a  jot  whether  you  are  a  prince ;  but  a  man  who  has 
carte  and  tierce  at  his  finger's  ends  must  be  a  gentleman. 

Mel.  (aside).  Gentleman!  Ay,  I  was  a  gentleman  before  I  turned 
conspirator  ;  for  honest  men  are  the  gentlemen  of  Nature  !  (aloud)  Colo- 
nel, they  tell  me  you  rose  from  the  ranks. 

Damas.  I  did. 

Mel.  And  in  two  years  ! 

Damas.  It  is  true  ;  that's  no  wonder  in  our  army  at  present.  Why, 
the  oldest  general  in  the  service  is  scarcely  thirty,  and  we  have  some  of 
two-aud-twenty. 


28  THE    LA.DT    OP    LYONS.  [ACT  II. 

Mel    Two-and-twenly  ! 

Damas.  Yes;  in  the  French  Army,  now-a-days,  promotion  is  not  a 
matter  of  purchase.  We  are  all  heroes,  because  we  may  be  all  generals. 
We  have  no  fear  of  the  cypress,  because  we  may  all  hope  for  the  laurel. 

Mel.  A  general  at  tvvo-and-twenty  !  (turning  to  Damas)  Sir,  I  may 
ask  you  a  favor  one  of  these  days. 

Damas.  Sir,  I  shall  be  proud  to  grant  it.  (Melnotte  retires)  It  is  as- 
tonishing how  much  I  like  a  man  after  I  have  fought  with  him.  [hides 
the  swords,  r.) 

Enter   Madame    Desciiappelles  and  Brauseant.  from  house,  l.  s.  e. 
Beauseant  crosses  behind  to  n. 

Mme  Desciiap.  Oh,  prince — prince !  What  do  I  hear  1  You  must 
fly — y°u  mast  quit  us  ! 

Mel.  I! 

Beau.  Yes,  prince  ;  read  this  letter,  just  received  from  my  friend  at 
Paris,  one  of  the  Directory  ;  they  suspect  you  of  designs  against  the 
Republic ;  they  are  very  suspicious  of  princes,  and  your  family  take 
part  with  the  Austrians.  Knowing  that  I  introduced  your  highness  at 
Lyons,  my  friend  writes  to  me  to  say  that  you  must  quit  the  town  im- 
mediately, or  you  will  be  arrested — thrown  into  prison,  perhaps  guillo- 
tined !  Fly!  I  will  order  horses  to  your  carnage  instantly.  Fly  to 
Marseilles ;  there  you  can  take  ship  to  Leghorn. 

Mme.  Desciiap.  ADd  what's  to  become  of  Pauline  1  Am  I  not  to  be 
a  mother  to  a  princess,  after  all  1 

Enter  Pauline  and  Monsieur  Desciiappelles,  from  house,  l.  s.  e. 

Pauline  (throwing  herself  into  Melnotte's  arms).  You  must  leave  us. 
Leave  Pauline ! 

Beau.  Not  a  moment  is  to  he  wasted. 

M.  Desciiap.  (a).  I  will  go  to  the  magistrates,  and  inquire 

Beau.  Then  he  is  lost ;  the  magistrates,  hearing  he  is  suspected,  will 
order  his  arrest. 

Mme.  Descuap.  And  I  shall  not  be  a  princess-dowager  ! 

Beau.  Why  not?  There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done — send  for  the 
priest — let  the  marriage  take  place  at  once,  and  the  prince  carry  home 
a  bride,  (crosses  to  l.) 

Mel.  Impossible!   (aside)  Villain! 

Mme.  Deschap.  What,  lose  my  child  ] 

Beau,  And  gain  a  princess! 

Mme.  Deschap.  Oh,  Monsieur  Beauseant,  you  are  so  very  kind,  it  must 
be  so — we  ought  not  to  be  selfish,  my  daughter's  happiness  at  stake.  She 
will  go  away,  too,  in  a  carriage  and  six  ! 

Pauline.  Thou  art  here  still — I  cannot  part  from  thee,  my  heart  will 
break. 

Mel.  But  you  will  not  consent  to  this  hasty  union  1 — thou  wilt  not 
wed  an  outcast — a  fugitive  1 

Pauline.  Ah  !  if  thou  art  in  danger,  who  should  share  it  but  Pauline  1 

Mel.  (aside).  Distraction  !     If  the  earth  could  swallow  me  ! 

M.  Desciiap.  Gently!  gently!  The  settlements — the  contracts — my 
daughter's  dowry  ! 

Mel.  The  dowry !  I  am  not  base  enough  for  that;  no,  not  one  far- 
thing! 

Beau,  (to  Madame).  Noble  fellow  !  Really  your  husband  is  too 
mercantile  in    these   matters.     Monsieur    Desciiappelles,  you   hear  his 


ACT  III.]  THE    LAD5T    OF    LYONS.  l29 

liiylmess  ?  we  can  arrange  the  settlements  by  proxy     'tis  the  way  with 
people  of  quality. 

M.  Descuap.  But 

Mme.  Deschap.  Hold  your  tongue !    Don't  expose  yourself. 
Beau.  1  will  bring  the  priest  in  a  trice.     Go  in  all  of  you  and  pre- 
pare :  the  carriage  shall  be  at  the  door  before  the  ceremony  is  over. 

Mme.  Descuap.  Be  sure  there  are  six  horses,  Beauseant !  You  are 
very  good  to  have  forgiven  us  for  refusing  you ;  but  you  see — a  prince. 

Deau.  And  such  a  prince  !  Madame.  I  cannot  blush  at  the  success 
of  so  illustrious  a  rival,  (aside)  Now  will  I  follow  them  to  the  village, 
enjoy  my  triumph,  and  to-morrow,  in  the  hour  of  thy  shame  and  grief, 
I  think,  proud  girl,  thou  wilt  prefer  even  these  arms  to  those  of  the  gar- 
dener's son.  [Exit,  l.  s.  e. 

Mme.  Deschap.  Come,  Monsieur  Deschappelles,  give  your  arm'to  her 
highness  that  is  to  be. 

M.  Deschap.  I  don't  like  doing  business  in  such  a  hurry;  'tis  not 
the  way  with  the  house  of  Deschappelles  and  Co. 

Mme.  Deschap.  There,  now,  you  fancy  you  are  in  the  counting- 
house,  don't  you  ?  {pushes  him  to  Paulixe.) 

Mil.  Stay,  stay,  Pauline — one  word.  Have  you  no  scruple,  no  fear  ? 
Speak — it  is  not  yet  too  late. 

Pauline.  When  I  loved  thee,  thy  fate  became  mine.  Triumph  or 
danger — joy  or  sorrow — 1  am  by  thy  side. 

Damas.  Well,  well,  Prince,  thou  art  a  lucky  man  to  be  so  loved.     She 
is  a  good  little  girl  in  spite  of  her  foibles — make  her  as  happy  as  if  she 
were  not  to  be  a  princess.     Come,  sir,  I  wish  you  joy — young— tender  — 
lovely — zounds  !  I  envy  you.  (slapping  him  on  the  shoulder.) 
Mel.   (who  has  stood  apart  in  glocmy  abstraction). 
Do  you  ■?      Wise  judges  we  are  of  each  other. 
"  Woo,  wed,  and  bear  her  home  !"     So  runs  the  bond 
To  which  I  sold  myself — and  then — what  then  1 
Away — I  will  not  look  beyond  the  hour. 
You  envy  me— I  thank  you — you  may  read 
My  joy  upon  my  brow — I  thank  you,  sir  ! 
If  hearts  had  audible  language,  you  would  hear 
What  mine  would  answer  when  you  talk  of  envy  ! 

[Exeunt  into  house,  l.  u.  e. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — The   exterior  of  the    Golden  L'on — time,  twilight.     The  moon 
rises  during  the  scene. 

Enter  Landlord  and  his  Daughter  fmm  the  Inn,  l.  n.  p. 

Land.  Ha — ha — ha  !  Well,  I  never  shall  get  over  it.  Our  Clande  is 
a  prince  with  a  vengeance  now.  His  carriage  breaks  down  at  my  inn — 
ha — ha  ! 

Janet.  And  what  airs  the  young  lady  gives  herself !  "Is  this  the 
best  room  you  have,  young  woman?"  with  such  a  toss  of  the  head. 

Laxd.  Well,  get  in,  Janet ;  get  in  and  see  to  the  supper  ;  the  servants 
must  sup  before  they  go  back.  [Exeunt,  l.  d.  f. 


80  THE    LADY    OF    LYOKS.  [ACT  ILL 

Enter  Beauseant  and  Glavis,  l.  n. 

Beau.  You  see  our  princess  is  lodged  at  last — one  stage  more,  and 
she'll  be  at  her  journey's  end — the  beautiful  pa'ace  at  the  foot  of  t lie 
Alps — ha — ha  ! 

Gla.  Faith,  I  pity  the  poor  Pauline — especially  if  she's  going  to  sup 
at  the  Golden  Lion,  (makes  a  ivry  face)  I  shall  never  forget  that  cursed 
ragout. 

Enter  Melnotte  from  the  Inn,  l.  d.  f. 

Beau.  Your  servant,  my  Prince  ;  you  reigned  most  worthily.  I  con- 
dole with  you  on  your  abdication.  I  am  afraid  that  your  lrighness's  re- 
tinue are  not  very  faithful  servants.  I  think  they  will  quit  you  in  the 
moment  of  your  fall — 'tis  the  fate  of  greatness.  But  you  are  welcome 
to  your  fine  clothes — also  the  diamond  snuff-box,  which  Louis  XIV. 
gave  to  your  great-great  grandmother. 

Gla.  And  the  ring,  with  which  your  grandfather  the  Doge  of  Venice 
married  the  Adriatic. 

Mel.  I  have  kept  my  oath,  gentlemen — say,  have  I  kept  my  oath  1 

Beau.  Most  religiously. 

Mel.  Then  you  have  done  with  me  and  mine — away  with  you. 

Beau.  How,.knave  ? 

Mel.  Look  you,  our  bond  is  over.  Proud  conquerors  that  we  are, 
we  have  won  the  victory  over  a  simple  girl,  compromised  her  honor — 
embittered  her  life — blasted,  in  their  very  blossoms,  all  the  flowers  of 
her  youth.  This  is  your  triumph— it  is  my  shame  !  {turns  to  Beauseant) 
Enjoy  thy  triumph,  but  not  in  my  sight.  I  was  her  betrayer — I  am  her 
protector!  Cross  but  her  path— one  word  of  scorn,  one  look  of  insult 
—nay,  but  one  quiver  of  that  mocking  lip,  and  I  will  teach  thee  that 
bitter  word  thou  hast  graven  eternally  in  this  heart — Repentance  ! 

Beau.  His  highness  is  most  grandiloquent. 

Mel.  Highness  me  no  more!  Beware!  Remorse  has  made  me  a 
new  being.     Away  with  you  !     There  is  danger  in  me.     Away  ! 

Gla.  (aside).  He's  an  awkward  fellow  to  deal  with;  come  away,  Beau- 
seant ! 

Beau.  I  know  the  respect  due  to  rank.  Adieu,  my  Prince.  Any 
commands  at  Lyons  1  Yet  hold— I  promised  you  200  louis  on  your 
wedding-day;  here  they  are. 

Mel.  {dashing  the  purse  to  the  (/round).  I  gave  you  revenge,  I  did  not 
sell  it.  Take  up  your  silver,  Judas;  take  it.  Ay,  it  is  fit  you  should 
learn  to  stoop. 

Beau.  You  will  beg  my  pardon  for  this  some  aav.  (aside  to  Glavis) 
Come  to  my  chateau— I  shall  return  hither  to-morrow,  to  learn  how 
Pauline  likes  her  new  dignity. 

Mel.  Are  you  not  gone  yet  1 

Beau.  Your  highness's  most  obedient,  most  faithful 

Gla.  And  most  humble  servants.     Ha — ha  ! 

•  [Exeunt  Beauseant  'and  Glavis,  n. 

Mel.  Thank  Heaven  I  had  no  weapon,  or  I  should  have  slain  them. 
Wretch  !  what  can  I  say  ?  Where  turn  1  On  all  sides  mockery— the 
very  boors  within— (laughter  from  the  Inn)  'Sdeath,  if  even  in  this  short 
absence  the  exposure  should  have  chanced.  I  will  call  her.  We  will 
go  hence.  I  have  already  sent  one  I  can  trust  to  my  mother's  house. 
A  here,  at  least,  none  can  insult  her  agony— gloat  upon  her  shame  ! 
Ihere  alone  must  she  learn  what  a  villain  she  has  sworn  to  love. 

As  he  turns  to  the  door,  Pauline  enters  from  the  Inn,  l.  d.  f. 


ACT  III.]  THE   LADr    OF    LYONS.  31 

Pauline.  Ah !  my  lord,  what  a  place !  I  never  saw  such  rude  peo- 
ple. I  think  the  very  sight  of  a  prince,  though  he  travels  incognito, 
turns  their  honest  heads.  What  a  pity  the  carriage  should  break  down 
in  such  a  spot !  You  are  not  well — the  drops  stand  on  your  brow — your 
hand  is  feverish. 

Mel.  Nay,  it  is  but  a  passing  spasm ;  the  air 

Pauline.  Is  not  the  soft  air  of  your  native  south,  (pause) 

How  pale  he  is  ! — indeed  thou  art  not  well. 

Where  are  our  people  ?     I  will  call  them,  {going.) 
Mel,  Hold ! 

I — I  am  well. 
Pauline.  Thou  art !     Ah  !  now  I  know  it. 

Thou  fanciest,  my  kind  lord — I  know  thou  dost — 

Thou  fanciest  these  rude  walls,  these  rustic  gossips, 

Brick'd  floors,  sour  wine,  coarse  viands,  vex  Pauline ; 

And  so  they  might,  but  thou  art  by  my  side, 

And  1  forget  all  else. 

Enter  Landlord  from  d.  p.,  the  Servants  peeping  and  laughing  over  his 

shoulder. 

Land.  My  lord — your  highness — 

Will  your  most  noble  excellency  choose 

Mel.    Begone,  sir  !  [Exit  Landlord,  laughing. 

Pauline.  How  could  they  have  learn'd  thy  rank  ? 

One's  servants  are  so  vain  ;  nay,  let  it  not 

Chafe  thee,  sweet  Prince ! — a  few  short  days  and  we 

Shall  see  thy  palace  by  its  lake  of  silver, 

And — nay,  nay,  spendthrift,  is  thy  wealth  of  smiles 

Already  drain'd,  or  dost  thou  play  the  miser  ? 
Mel.  (r.  c).  Thine  eyes  would  call  up  smiles  in  deserts,  fair  one. 

Let  us  escape  these  rustics  ;  close  at  hand 

There  is  a  cot,  where  I  have  bid  prepare 

Our  evening  lodgment — a  rude,  homely  roof, 

But  honest,  where  our  welcome  will  not  be 

Made  torture  by  the  vulvar  eyes  and  tongues 

That  are  as  death  to  Love !     A  heavenly  night ! 

The  wooing  air  and  the  soft  moon  invite  us. 

Wilt  walk  1     I  pray  thee,  now — I  know  the  path, 

Ay,  every  inch  of  it ! 
Pauline.  What,  thou  !  methought 

Thou  wert  a  stranger  in  these  parts  1     Ah,  truant, 

Some  village  beauty  lured  thee  ! — thou  art  now 

Grown  constant  1 
Mel.  Trust  me. 

Pauline.  Princes  are  so  changeful ! 

Mel.  Come,  dearest,  come. 
Pauline.  Shall  I  not  can  our  people 

To  light  us  ? 
Mel.  Heaven  will  lend  its  stars  for  torches! 

It  is  not  far. 
Pauline.  The  night  breeze  chills  me. 

Mel.  Nay, 

Let  me  thus  mantle  thee  ;   (throtvs  his  cloak  over  her)  it  is  not  cold. 
Pauline.  Never  beneath  thy  smile! 
Mel.  (aside),  0  Heaven  !  forgive  me! 

[Exeunt,  B. 


32  THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  [ACT  III. 

SCENE  II. — Melnotte's  cottage — Widow  bustling  about — a   table  spread 
for  supper. 

Widow  So,  I  think  that  looks  very  neat.  He  sent  me  a  line,  so  blot- 
ted that  I  can  scarcely  read  it.  to  say  he  would  be  here  almost  immedi- 
ately. She  must  have  loved  him  well  indeed  to  have  forgotten  his  birth  ; 
for  though  he  was  introduced  to  her  in  disguise,  he  is  too  honorable  not 
to  have  revealed  to  her  the  artifice  ;  which  her  love  only  could  forgive. 
Well,  I  do  cot  wonder  at  it ;  for  though  my  son  is  not  a  prince,  he 
ought  to  be  one,  and  that's  almost  as  good,  {knock  at  d.  in  f.)  Ah  !  here 
they  are. 

Enter  Melnotte  and  Pauline  from  d.  in  f.  ;  he  places  /it's  cloak  and  hat  on 

a  chair. 

Widow.  Oh,  my  boy — the  pride  of  my  heart ! — welcome,  welcome.  I 
beg  pardon,  ma'am,  but  I  do  love  him  so  !   (Melnotte  comes  down  l.) 

Pauline  (r.).  Good  woman,  I  really — why,  Prince,  what  is  this  >. — 
does  the  old  lady  know  you  ?  Oh,  I  guess  you  have  done  her  some  ser- 
vice.    Another  proof  of  your  kind  heart ;  is  it  not  ? 

Mel.  (l.).  Of  my  kind  heart,  ay  ! 

Pauline.  So  you  know  the  Prince  1 

Widow.  Know  him,  madam  1  Ah,  I  begin  to  fear  it  is  you  who  know 
him  not ! 

Pauline  (cross/s  to  Melnotte).  Can  we  stay  here,  my  lord  ?  I  think 
there's  something  very  wild  about  her.  (Melnotte  passes  her  round  to  l.) 

Mel.  Madam,  I — no,  I  cannot  tell  her  :  what  a  coward  is  a  man  who 
has  lost  his  honor  !  Speak  to  her — speak  to  her — (to  his  mother)  te!l  her 
that — 0  Heaven,  that  1  were  dead !  {crosses  r.) 

Pauline.  How  confused  he  looks  ! — this  strange  place  ! — this  woman 
— what  can  it  mean  ? — I  half  suspect — who  are  you,  madam  1 — who  are 
you  7  cjn't  you  speak  ?  are  you  struck  dumb  1 

Widow  (c  ).  Claude,  you  have  not  deceived  her  ?  Ah,  shame  upon 
you!  I  thought  that,  before  you  went  to  the  altar,  she  was  to  have 
known  all. 

Pauline.  All !  what !     My  blood  freezes  in  my  veins  ! 

AVidow.  Poor  lady — dare  I  tell  her,  Claude  1  (Melnotte  makes  a 
sign  of  assent)  Know  you  not,  then,  madam,  that  this  young  man  is  of 
poor  though  honest  parents  7  Know  you  not  that  you  are  wedded  to 
my  son,  Claude  Melnotte  "? 

Pauline.  Your  son!  hold — hold!  do  not  speak  to  me.  (approaches 
Melnotte,  and  lags  her  hand  on  his  arm)  Is  this  a  jest?  is  it?  I  know 
it  is,  only  speak — one  word — one  look — one  smile.  I  cannot  believe — I 
who  loved  thee  so — I  cannot  believe  that  thou  art  such  a — No,  I  will 
not  wrong  thee  by  a  harsh  word  !     Speak. 

Mel.  Leave  us.  (crosses  to  Me  Widow  and  sinks  into  a  chair)  Have  pity 
on  her,  on  me ;  leave  us  ! 

Widow.  Oh,  Claude,  that  I  should  live  to  see  thee  bowed  by  shame  ! 
thee  of  whom  I  was  so  proud  !  [Exit,  d.  l.  h. 

Pauline.  Her  son — her  son  !  (Melnotte  rises,  brings  forward  the  chair, 
motions  Pauline  to  be  seated  ;  she  proudly  d  dines.  \ 
Mel.  Now,  lady,  hear  me. 
Pauline.  Hear  thee ! 

Ay,  speak — her  son  !  have  fiends  a  parent?  speak, 
That  thou  mayst  silence  curses — speak  ! 
Mel.  No,  curse  me  ; 

Thy  curse  would  blast  me  less  than  thy  forgiveness. 


ACT  III  ]  THE  LADY  OF  LIONS.  33 

Pauline    {laughing  wildly).  "  This  is  thy   palace,  where  the  perfume  1 
light 
Steals  through  the  mist  of  alabaster  lamps, 
And  every  air  is  heavy  with  the  sighs 
Of  orange  groves,  and  music  from  sweet  lutes, 
And  murmurs  of  low  fountains,  that  gush  forth 
F  the  midst  of  roses  !"     Dost  thou  like  the  picture  ?  (crosses,  l.) 
This  is  my  bridal  home,  and  thou  my  bridegroom. 

0  fool — 0  dupe — 0  wretch  !     I  see  it  all. 
The  by-word  aril  the  jeer  of  every  tongue 
In  Lyons.     Hast  thou  in  thy  heart  one  touch 
Of  human  kindness  ?  if  thou  hast,  why,  kill  me, 

And  save  thy  wife  from  madness,  {crosses,  r.)  No,  it  cannot — 
It  cannot  b3;  this  is  s  >me  horrid  dream  ; 

1  shall  wake  soon,   (touching  him)  Art  flesh  1  art  man  1  or  bat 
Ttie  shadows  seen  in  sleep  I     It  is  too  real. 

What  have  I  done  to  thee  ?  how  siuu'd  against  thee, 
That  thou  shouldst  crush  me  thus  ? 
Mel.  Pauline,  by  pride 

Angels  have  fallen  ere  thy  time  ;  by  pride — 
That  sole  alloy  of  thy  most  lovely  mould — 
The  evil  spirit  of  a  bitter  love, 
And  a  revengeful  heart,  had  power  upon  thee. 
From  my  first  years  my  soul  was  fill'd  with  thee  ; 
I  saw  thee  midst  the  flow'rs  the  lowly  boy 
Tended,  unmark'd  by  thee — a  spirit  of  bloom, 
And  joy,  and  freshness,  as  if  Spring  itself 
Were  made  a  living  thing,  an  I  wore  thy  shape  ! 
I  saw  thee,  and  the  passionate  heart  of  man 
Enter'd  the  breast  of  the  wild-dreaming  boy. 
And  from  that  hour  I  grew — what  to  the  last 
I  shall  be — thine  adorer  !     Well,  this  love, 
Vain,  frantic,  guilty,  if  thou  wilt,  became 
A  fountain  of  ambition  and  bright  hope  ; 
I  thought  of  tales  that  by  the  winter  hearth 
Old  gossips  tell — how  maidens  sprung  from  kings, 
Have  stoop'd  from  their  high  sphere;  how  love,  like  death, 
Levels  all  ranks,  and  lays  the  shepherd's  crook 
Beside  the  sceptre. 

My  father  died;  and  T,  the  peasant  born, 
Was  my  own  lord.     Then  did  I  seek  to  rise 
Out  of  the  prison  of  my  mean  estate  ; 
And,  with  such  jewels  as  the  exploring  mind 
Brings  from  the  caves  of  knowledge,  buy  my  ransom 
From  those  twin  jailers  of  the  daring  heart — 
Low  birth  and  iron  fortune.     For  thee  I  grew 
A  midnight  student  o'er  the  dreams  of  sages. 
For  thee  I  sought  to  borrow  from  each  grace, 
And  every  muse,  such  attributes  as  lend 
Ideal  charms  to  love.     1  thought  of  thee, 
And  passion  taught  me  poesy — of  thee. 
And  on  the  painter's  canvas  grew  the  life 
Of  beauty  !     Art  became  the  shadow 
Of  the  dear  starlight  of  thy  haunting  eyes  I 
Men  call'd  me  vain — some  mad — I  heeded  not ; 
But  still  toil'd  on — hoped  on — for  it  was  sweet, 
If  not  to  win,  to  feel  more  worthy  thee  ? 


34  THE   LADY    OF    LY/ONS.  [ACT  III. 

Pauline.  Why  do  I  cease  to  hate  him  ! 

Mel.  At  last,  in  one  mad  hour,  I  dared  to  pour 

The  thoughts  that  burst  their  channels  into  song, 

And  sent  them  to  thee — such  a  tribute,  lady, 

As  beauty  rarely  scorns,  even  from  the  meanest. 

The  name — appended  by  the  burning  heart 

That  long'd  to  show  its  idol  what  bright  things 

It  had  created — yea,  the  enthusiast's  name, 

That  should  have  been  thy  triumph,  was  thy  scorn; 

That  very  hour — when  passion,  turn'd  to  wrath, 

Resembled  hatred  most — when  thy  disdain 

Made  my  whole  soul  a  chaos — in  that  hour 

The  tempters  found  me  a  revengeful  tool 

For  their  revenge  !     Thou  hadst  trampled  on  the  worm — 

It  turned  and  stung  thee  !   {throws  himself  into  chair,  l.  c.) 
Pauline.  Love,  sir,  hath  no  sting. 

What  was  the  slight  of  a  poor  powerless  girl 

To  the  deep  wrong  of  this  most  vile  revenge  1 

Oh,  how  I  loved  this  man  ! — a  serf — a  slave  ! 
Mel.    Hold,  lady  !  (starts  up)  No,  not  a  6lave  !     Despair  is  free 

I  will  not  tell  thee  of  the  throes — the  struggles — 

The  anguish — the  remorse.     No.  let  it  pass  ! 

And  let  me  come  to  such  most  poor  atonement 

Yet  in  my  power.     Pauline ! 

{approaching  her  with  great  emotion,  and  about  to  take  her  hand. 
Pauline.  No,  touch  me  not ! 

I  know  my  fate.     You  are,  by  law,  my  tyrant  ; 

And  I — 0  Heaven  ! — a  peasant's  wife  !     I'll  work — 

Toil — drudge — do  what  thou  wilt — but  touch  me  not ! 

Let  my  wrongs  make  me  sacred ! 
Mel.  Do  not  fear  me. 

Thou  dost  not  know  me,  madam  ;  at  the  altar 

My  vengeance  ceased — my  guilty  oath  expired ! 

Henceforth,  no  image  of  some  marble  saint, 

Niched  in  cathedral  aisles,  is  hallowed  more 

From  the  rude  hand  of  sacrilegious  wrong. 

I  am  thy  husband — nay,  thou  need'st  not  shudder  ! — 

Here,  at  thy  feet,  I  lay  a  husband's  rights. 

A  marriage  thus  unholy — unfulfill'd — 

A  bond  of  fraud — is,  by  the  laws  of  France, 

Made  void  and  null.     To-night  sleep — sleep  in  peace 

To-morrow,  pure  and  virgin  as  this  morn 

I  bore  thee,  bathed  in  blushes,  from  the  shrine. 

Thy  father's  arms  shall  take  thee  to  thy  home. 

The  law  shall  do  thee  justice,  and  restore 

Thy  right  to  bless  another  with  thy  love. 

And  when  thou  art  happy,  and  hast  half  forgot 

Him  who  so  loved — so  wrong'd  thee,  think  at  least 

Heaven  left  some  remnant  of  the  angel  still 

In  that  poor  peasant's  nature!  (goes  ton.  l.  h.  and  calls)  Ho  !  my 
mother ! 

Enter  Widow,  d.  l.  h. 

Conduct  this  lady  (she  is  not  my  wife ; 

She  is  our  guest — our  honor'd  guest,  my  mother) 

To  the  poor  chamber,  where  the  sleep  of  virtue 


ACT  IV.]  THE    LADY    OF    LIONS.  35 

Never,  beneath  my  father's  honest  roof, 

E'en  villains  dared  to  mar  !     Now,  lady,  now, 

I  think   thou  wilt   believe   me.   (takes  her  hand  and  leads  her  to  the 
Widow)  Go,  my  mother  ! 
Widow.  She  is  not  thy  wife!  (on  the  stairs.) 
Mel.  Hush,  hush  !  for  mercy's  sake  ! 

Speak  not,  but  go. 

Widow  ascends  the  stairs,  r.  u.  e.     Papline  follows,  weeping — turns  to  look 

back. 

Mel.  (throws  himself  upon  his  knees  beside  the  chair,  a).  All  angels  bless 
and  guard  her ! 

curtain. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — Tlie  cottage  as  before — Melnotte  seated  before  a  table — writing 
implements,  etc.  (Dag  breaking  ;  he  rises  and  goes  to  the  fool  of  the 
staircase,  and  listens.) 

Mel.  Hush,  hush ! — she  sleeps  at  last ! — thank  Heaven,  for  a  while 
she  forgets  even  that  1  live !  Her  sobs,  which  have  gone  to  my  heart 
the  whole,  long,  desolate  night,  have  ceased! — all  calm — all  still !  (sits 
and  writes)  I  will  go  now;  I  will  send  this  letter  to  Pauline's  father; 
when  he  arrives  I  will  place  in  his  hands  my  own  consent  to  the  divorce, 
and  then,  0  France  !  my  country  !  accept  among  thy  protectors,  thy  de- 
fenders— the  Peasant's  Son  !  Our  country  is  less  proud  than  custom, 
and  does  not  refuse  the  blood,  the  heart,  the  right  hand  of  the  poor 
man. 

Enter  Widow,  dotcn  the  staircase,  R.  u.  E. 

Widow.  My  son,  thou  hast  acted  ill ;  but  sin  brings  its  own  punish- 
ment. In  the  hour  of  thy  remorse,  it  is  not  for  a  mother  to  reproach 
thee. 

Mel.  What  is  past  is  past.  There  is  a  future  left  to  all  men,  who 
have  the  virtue  to  repent,  and  the  energy  to  atone.  Thou  shalt  be 
proud  of  thy  son  yet.  Meanwhile,  remember  this  poor  lady  has  been 
grievously  injured.  For  the  sake  of  thy  son's  conscience,  respect,  hon- 
or, bear  with  her.  If  she  weep,  console — if  she  chide,  be  silent.  'Tis 
but  a  little  while  more — L  shall  send  an  express  fast  as  horse  can  speed 
to  her  father.     Farewell!   I  shall  return  shortly. 

Widow.  It  is  the  only  course  left  to  thee — thou  wert  led  astray,  but 
thou  art  not  hardened.  Thy  heart  is  light  still,  as  ever  it  was  when,  in 
thy  most  ambitious  hopes,  thou  wert  never  ashamed  of  thy  poor  mother. 

Mel.  Ashamed  of  thee  !  No,  if  I  yet  endure,  yet  live,  yet  hope — it  is 
only  because  I  would  not  die  till  I  have  redeemed  the  noble  heritage  I 
have  lost — the  heritage  I  took  unstained  from  thee  and  my  dead  father 
— a  proud  conscience  and  an  honest  name.  I  shall  win  them  back  yet 
— Heaven  bless  you!  [Exit,  d.  in  v. 

Widow.  My  dear  Claude  !     How  my  heart  bleeds  for  him.  {the  Widow 
draws  back  the  window  curtains,  removes  the  candle  from  the  tail",  an* 
off,  d.  l.  n.) 


36  THE    L.VDT    OF    LYONS.  [_.VCT  IV. 

Pauline  looks  down  from  the  stairs,  and.  after  a  pause,  descends. 

Pauline.  N>>t  here! — lie  spares  me  that  pain  at  least;  so  far  lie  is 
considerate — yet  the  place  seems  still  more  desolate  without  him  Oil, 
that  I  could  hate  him — the  gardener's  son  ! — and  yet  how  nobly  he — no 
— no — no,  1  will  not  be  so  mean  a  thing  as  to  forgive  him  ! 

Re-enter  Widow,  d.  l.  n. 

Widow.  Good  morning,  madam  ;  I  would  have  waited  on  you  if  I  had 
known  you  were  stirring. 

Pauline.  It  is  no  matter,  ma'am — your  son's  wife  ou^ht  to  wait  on 
herself. 

Widow.  My  son's  wife — let  not  that  thought  vex  you,  madam — he 
tells  me  that  you  will  have  your  divorce.  And  I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see 
him  smile  again.  There  are  maidens  in  this  village,  young  and  fair, 
mi  lam,  who  may  yet  console  him. 

Pauline  I  dare  say — they  are  very  welcome — and  when  the  divorce 
is  got — he  will  marry  again.     1  am  sure  I  hope  so.  {weeps.) 

Widow.  He  could  have  married  the  richest  girl  in  the  province,  if  he 
had  pleased  it ;  but  his  head  was  turned,  poor  child  !  he  could  think  of 
nothing  but  you.  {weeps  ) 

Pauline.   Don't  weep,  mother. 

Widow.  Ah,  he  has  behaved  very  ill,  I  know,  but  love  is  so  head- 
strong in  the  young. 

Pauline.   So,  as  you  were  saying — go  on. 

Widow.  Oh,  I  cannot  excuse  him,  ma'am — he  was  not  in  bis  right 
senses. 

Pauline.  But  he  always — always  {sobbing)  loved — loved  me  then  1 

Widow.  He  thought  of  nothing  else.  See  here — he  learnt  to  paint 
that  he  might  take  your  likeness,  (uncovers  the  picture)  But  that's  all 
over  now — I  trust  you  have  cured  him  of  bis  folly — but,  dear  heart,  you 
have  had  no  breakfast ! 

Pauline.  I  can't  take  anything — don't  troub'e  yourself.  Oh,  if  ho 
were  but  a  poor  gentleman,  even  a  merchant;  but  a  gardener's  son — 
and  what  a  home  !  Oh,  no,  it  is  too  dreadful.  (Pauline  sits  l.  of  the 
table.     Beauseant  opens  the  lattice  and  looks  in,  f.) 

Beau.  So — so — the  coast  is  clear  !  I  saw  Claude  in  the  lane — I  shad 
have  an  excellent  opportunity,  (shuts  the  lattice  and  knocks  at  the  d.  in  f.) 

Pauline  [starting).  Can  it  be  my  father  ?  he  Ins  not  sent  for  him  yet. 
No,  he  cannot  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  rid  of  me. 

Widow.  It  is  not  time  for  your  father  to  arrive  yet ;  it  must  be  some 
neighbor. 

Pauline.  Don't  admit  any  one. 

Widow  opens  the  d.  in  f.,  Beauseant  pushes  her  aside,  and  enters. 

Ha  !  Heavens  !  that  hateful  Beauseant !     This  is  indeed  bitter  ! 

Beau.  Good  morning,  madam!  0,  widow,  your  son  bejs  you  will 
have  the  goodness  to  go  to  him  in  the  village— he  wants  to  speak  to  you 
on  particular  business;  you'll  find  him  at  the  inn,  or  the  grocer's  shop, 
or  the  baker's,  or  at  some  other  friend's  of  your  family — make  haste. 

Pauline.   Don't  leave  me,  mother — don't  leave  me  ! 

Beau,  (with  great  respect).  Be  not  alarmed,  madam.  Believe  me  your 
friend — your  servant. 

Pauline.  Sir,  I  have  no  fear  of  you,  even  in  this  house!    Go,  madam, 


ACT  IV.]  THE    LAD5T    OF    LYOXS.  37 

if  your  son  wishes  it ;  I  will  not  contradict  bis   commands  whilst,  at 
least,  he  has  still  the  right  to  be  obeyed. 

Widow.  I  don't  understand  this  ;  however,  I  shan't  be  long  gone. 

[Exit,  d.  in  f. 

Pauline.  Sir,  I  divine  the  object  of  your  visit — you  wish  to  exult  in 
the  humiliation  of  one  who  humbled  you.  Be  it  so;  I  am  prepared  to 
endure  all — even  your  presence  ! 

Beau.  You  mistake  me,  madam — Pauline,  you  mistake  me  !  I  come 
to  lay  my  fortune  at  your  feet.  You  must  already  be  disenchanted 
with  this  impostor  ;  these  walls  are  not  worthy  to  be  hallowed  by  your 
beauty  !  Shall  that  form  be  clasped  in  the  arms  of  a  base-born  pea- 
sant.'  Beloved,  beautiful  Pauline!  fly  with  me — my  carriage  waits 
without — I  will  bear  you  to  a  homo  more  meet  for  your  reception. 
Wealth,  luxury,  station — all  shall  yet  be  yours.  1  forget  your  past  dis- 
dain— I  remember  only  your  beauty,  and  my  unconquerable  love ! 

Pauline.  Sir !  leave  this  house — it  is  humble  ;  but  a  husband's  roof, 
however  lowly,  is,  in  the  eyes  of  God  and  man,  the  temple  of  a  wife's 
honor!  Know  that  I  would  rather  starve — yes — with  him  who  has 
betrayed  me,  than  accept  your  lawful  hand,  even  were  you  the  prince 
whose  name  he  bore.     Go. 

Beau.  What,  is  not  your  pride  humbled  yet  ? 

Pauline.  Sir,  what  was  pride  in  prosperity  in  affliction  becomes  vir- 
tue. 

Beau.  Look  round ;  these  rugged  floors — these  homely  walls — this 
wretched  struggle  of  poverty  for  comfort — think  of  this!  and  contrast 
with  such  a  picture  the  reflnemeut,  the  luxury,  the  pomp,  that  the 
wealthiest  gentleman  of  Lyons  offers  to  the  loveliest  lady.    Ah,  hear  me. 

Pauline.  Oh!  my  father — why  did  I  leave  you? — why  am  I  thus 
friendless  ?  Sir,  you  see  before  you  a  betrayed,  injured,  miserable  wo- 
man— respect  her  anguish  ! 

Beau.  No,  let  me  rather  thus  console  it ;  let  me  snatch  from  those 
lips  one  breath  of  that  fragrance  which  never  should  be  wasted  on  the 
low  churl  thy  husband. 

Pauline.  Help!  Claude! — Claude!     Have  I  no  protector  1 

Beau.  Be  silent!  (Melnotte  appears  at  the  d.  f.  Seeing  Beauseant, 
he  pauses  at  the  threshold.  Beauseant  shows  pistol)  See,  I  do  not  come 
unprepared  even  for  violence.  I  will  brave  all  things — thy  husband 
and  all  his  race — for  thy  sake.  Thus,  then,  I  clasp  thee  !  (Melnotte 
rushes  forward. ) 

Mel.  (dashi)uj  him  to  the  other  end  of  the  stage).  Pauline — look  up,  Pau- 
line !  thou  art  safe. 

Beau.  Dare  you  insult  a  man  of  my  birth,  ruffian  ?  {levelling  his  pistol.) 

Pauline.  Oh,  spare  him — spare  my  husband  !  Beauseant — Claude — 
no — no — (  faints  ) 

Mel.  Miserable  trickster !  shame  upon  you!  brave  devices  to  terrify 
a  woman  !  Coward  ! — you  tremble — you  have  outraged  the  laws — you 
know  that  your  weapon  is  harmless — you  have  the  courage  of  the 
mountebank,  not  the  bravo  !     Pauline,  there  is  no  danger. 

Beau.  I  wish  thou  wert  a  gentleman — as  it  is,  thou  art  beneath  me. 
Good  day,  and  a  happy  honeymoon,  {aside)  I  will  not  die  till  I  am 
avenged  !  [Exit,  d.  in  f. 

Mel.    I  hold  her  in  these  arms — the  last  embrace  ! 
Never,  ah  !  never  more,  shall  this  dear  head 
Be  pillow'd  on  the  heart  that  should  have  sheltered 
And  has  betrayed!     Soft — soft!  one  kiss — poor  wretch! 
No  scorn  on  that  pale  lip  forbids  me  now ' 
One  kiss — so  ends  all  record  of  my  crime  ! 


38  THE   LADY    OF   LYONS.  [ACT  IV. 

It  is  the  seal  upon  the  tomb  of  hope, 

By  which,  liUe  some  lost,  sorrowing  angel,  sits 

Sad  memory  ever  more  ; — she  breathes — she  moves — 

She  wakes  to  scorn,  to  hate,  but  not  to  shudder 

Beneath  the  touch  of  my  abhorred  love.  ( places  her  in  a  chair) 

There — we  are  strangers  now  ! 
Pauline.  All  gone — all  calm — 

Is  every  thing  a  dream  ?  thou  art  safe,  unhurt — 

I  do  not  love  thee  ;  but — but  I  am  a  woman, 

And — and — no  blood  is  spilt  1 
Mel.  (r.).  No,  lady,  no; 

My  guilt  hath  not  deserved  so  rich  a  blessing 

As  even  danger  in  thy  cause. 

Enter  Widow,  from  d.  in  r.  ;  comes  down  c. 

Widow.  My  son,  I  have  been  everywhere  in  search  of  you  ;  why  did 
you  send  for  me  1 

Mel.  I  did  not  send  for  yon. 

Widow.  No!  but  I  mu  t  tell  you  that  your  express  has  returned. 

Mel.  So  soon  !  impossible  ! 

Widow.  Yes,  he  met  the  lady's  father  and  mother  on  the  road  ;  they 
were  going  into  the  country  on  a  visit.  Your  messenger  says  that  Mon- 
sieur Deschappelles  turned  almost  white  with  anger  when  he  read  your 
letter.  They  will  be  here  almost  immediately.  Oh,  Claude,  Claude  ! 
what  will  they  do  to  you  1  How  I  tremble  !  Ah,  madam !  do  not  let 
them  injure  him — if  you  knew  how  he  doated  on  you! 

Pauline.  Injure  him!  no,  ma'am,  be  not  afraid,  (the  Widow  goes  up 
to  the  widoiv)  My  father !  how  shall  I  meet  him  ?  how  go  back  to  Lyons  ? 
the  scoff  of  the  whole  city  !  Cruel,  cruel  Claude,  {in  great  agitation)  Sir, 
you  have  acted  most  treacherously. 

Mel.  I  know  it,  madam. 

Pauline  (aside).  If  he  would  but  ask  me  to  forgive  him  !  (aloud)  I 
never  can  forgive  you,  sir. 

Mel.  I  never  dared  to  hope  it. 

Pauline.  But  you  are  my  husband  now,  and  I  have  sworn  to — to  love 
you,  sir. 

Mel.  That  was  under  a  false  belief,  madam.  Heaven  and  the  laws 
will  release  you  from  your  vow. 

Pauline.  He  will  drive  me  mad  !  if  he  were  but  less  proud — if  he 
would  but  ask  me  to  remain — hark,  hark — I  hear  the  wheels  of  the  car- 
riage— sir — Claude,  they  are  coming ;  have  you  no  word  to  say  ere  it  is 
too  late  ?     Quick — speak  1 

Mel.  I  can  only  congratulate  you  on  your  release.  Behold  your  pa- 
rents ! 

Enter  Monsieur  and  Madame  Deschappelles  and  Colonel  Damas,  d. 

in  f. 

M.  Deschap.  My  child  !  my  child  !  {goes  to  Pauline.) 

Mme.  Descuap.  Oh,  my  poor  Pauline  !  what  a  villainous  hovel  this  is  ! 

Old  woman,  get  me  a  chair — I  shall  faint — I  certainly  shall.     What  will 

the  world   say  ?     Child,  you  have  been  a  fool,  (sits  l.  c.)  A  mother's 

heart  is  easily  broken. 

Damas  (n.).  Ha,  ha  !  most  noble  Prince — I  am  sorry  to  see  a  man  of 

your  quality  in  such  a  condition  ;  I  am  afraid  your  highness  will  go  to 

the  House  of  Correction. 


ACT  IV.]  TUK    LADY    OF    LYONS.  39 

Mel.  (k.  c).  Taunt  on,  sir;  I  spared  you  when  you  were  unarmed — 
I  am  unarmed  now.  A  man  who  has  no  excuse  for  crime  is  indeed  de- 
fenceless ! 

Damas.  There's  something  fine  in  the  rascal,  after  all !  {retires  and 
crosses  behind  to  l.) 

M.  Deschap.  (l.  c).  Where  is  the  impostor]  Are  you  this  shame- 
less traitor  1     Can  you  brave  the  presence  of  that  girl's  father] 

Mel.   Strike  me,  if  it  please  you — you  are  her  father. 

Pauline.  Sir — sir,  for  my  sake  ! — whatever  his  guilt,  he  has  acted  no- 
bly in  atonement. 

Mme.  Deschap.  Nobly!  Are  you  mad,  gill]  I  have  no  patience 
with  you — to  disgrace  all  your  family  thus!  Nobly  !  Oh,  you  abomi- 
nable, hardened,  pitiful,  mean,  ugly  villain  !  {crosses  to  Melnotte  and 
back  again  to  l  ) 

Damas  (l.).  Ugly!     Why,  he  was  beautiful  yesterday  ! 

Pauline.  Madame,  this  is  his  roof,  and  he  is  my  husband.  Respect 
your  daughter,  or  let  blame  full  alone  on  her. 

Mme.  Deschap.  You — you!   Oh,  I'm  choking    (retires  and  sits  l.  u.  e.) 

M.  Deschap.  Sir,  it  were  idle  to  waste  reproach  upon  a  conscience  like 
yours — you  renounce  all  pretensions  to  the  person  of  this  lady  ? 

Mel.  I  do.  (gives  a  paper)  Here  is  my  consent  to  a  divorce — my  full 
confession  of  the  fraud  which  annuls  the  marriage.  Your  daughter  has 
been  foully  wronged — I  grant  it,  sir  ;  but  her  own  lips  will  tell  you  that, 
from  the  hour  in  which  she  crossed  this  threshold,  I  returned  to  my  own 
station,  and  respected  hers.  Pure  and  inviolate,  as  when  yestermorn 
you  laid  your  hand  upon  her  head  and  blessed  her,  I  yield  her  back  to 
you.  For  myself — I  deliver  you  for  ever  from  my  presence.  An  out- 
cast and  a  criminal,  I  seek  some  distant  land,  where  1  may  mourn  my 
sin,  and  pray  for  your  daughter's  peace.  Farewell — farewell  to  you  all, 
forever ! 

Widow.  Claude,  Claude,  you  would  not  leave  your  poor  old  mother  ] 
She  doeo  not  disown  you  in  your  sorrow — no,  not  even  in  your  guilt. 
No  divorce  can  separate  a  mother  from  her  son.   (embraces  Claude.) 

Pauline.  This  poor  widow  teaches  me  my  duty.  No,  mother — no, 
for  you  are  now  my  mother  also — nor  should  any  law,  human  or  divine, 
separate  the  wile  from  her  husband's  sorrows.  Claude — Claude — all 
is  forgotten — forgiven — I  am  thine  forever  !  {throws  herself  passionately 
into  his  arms.) 

Mme.  Deschap.  What  do  I  hear?  Come  away,  or  never  see  my  face 
again. 

M.  Deschap.  Pauline,  we  never  betrayed  you — do  you  forsake  us  for 
him? 

Pauline  (going  back  to  her  father).  Oh,  no — but  you  will  forgive  him, 
too ;  we  will  live  together — he  shall  be  your  son  ! 

M.  DEScnAP.  Never!  Clin<r  to  him  and  forsake  your  parents!  His 
home  shall  be  yours — his  fortune  yours — his  fate  yours ;  the  wealth  I 
have  acquired  by  honest  industry  shall  never  enrich  a  dishonest  man. 

Pauline.  And  you  would  have  a  wife  enjoy  luxury  while  a  husband 
toils  !  Claude,  take  me  ;  thou  canst  not  give  me  wealth,  titles,  station 
— but  thou  canst  give  me  a  true  heart.  I  will  work  for  thee,  tend  thee, 
bear  with  thee,  and  never,  never  shall  these  lips  reproach  thee  for  the 
past,  (el'isps  her  arms  around  him.) 

Mel.  This  is  the  heaviest  blow  of  all.  What  a  heart  I  have  wronged  ! 
Do  not  fear  me,  sir;  I  am  not  all  hardened — I  will  not  rob  her  of  a 
holier  love  than  mine.  Pauline! — angel  of  love  and  mercy — your  mem- 
ory shall  lead  me  hack  to  virtue.  The  husband  of  a  being  so  beautiful 
in  her  noble  and  sublime  tenderness  may  be  poor — may  be  low-born  ; — 


40  THE    IADJT    OF    LYONS.  [aCI  V. 

(there  is  no  guilt  in  the  decrees  of  Providence  1) — but  lie  should  be  one 
who  can  look  thee  in  the  face  without  a  blush — to  whom  thy  love  does 
not  bring  remorse — who  can  fold  thee  to  his  heart,  and  say, — "  Here 
there  is  no  deceit !" — I  am  not  that  man  !  {returns  her  to  Deschappelles.) 

Damas  {who  has  been  wa' clung  Melnotte.  comes  doivn,  r.).  Thou  art  a 
noble  fellow,  notwithstanding ;  and  wouklst  make  an  excellent  soldier. 
Serve  in  my  regiment.  I  have  had  a  letter  from  the  Directory — our 
young  general  takes  the  command  of  the  army  in  Italy — I  am  to  join 
him  at  Marseilles — 1  will  depart  this  day,  if  thou  wilt  go  with  me. 

Mel.  It  is  the  favor  1  would  have  asked  thee,  if  I  dared.  Place  me 
where  a  foe  is  most  dreaded — wherever  France  most  needs  a  life! 

Damas.  There  shall  not  be  a  forlorn  hope  without  thee  ! 

Mel.  There  is  my  hand  !  Mother,  your  blessing,  {goes  to  the  Widow, 
r.)  I  shall  see  you  again — a  better  man  than  a  prince — a  man  who  has 
bought  the  right  to  high  thoughts  by  brave  deeds.  And  thou  ! — thou! 
so  wildly  worshipped,  so  guiltily  betrayed — all  is  not  yet  lost — for  thy 
memory,  at  least,  must  be  mine  till  death  !  If  I  live,  the  name  of  him 
thou  hast  once  loved  shall  not  rest  dishonored — if  I  fall,  amidst  the  car- 
nage and  the  roar  of  battle,  my  soul  will  fly  back  to  thee,  and  love  shall 
share  with  death  my  last  sigh  !  More — more  would  I  speak  to  thee — to 
pray — to  bless  !  But  no — when  I  am  less  unworthy  I  will  utter  it  to 
Heaven  !  I  cannot  trust  myself  to — {turning  to  Descuappelles)  Your 
pardon,  sir — they  are  my  last  words — farewell ! 

[Exeunt  Melnotte  and  Damas,  d.  in  f. 

Pauline  {starting  from  her  father's  arms).  Claude — Claude— my  hus- 
band! {she  falls  ;  Deschappelles  and  Madame  raise  her.  The  Widow 
stands  at  the  door  watching  the  departure  of  Claude.) 


ACT  V. 

( Two  years  and  a  half  from  the  date  of  Act  IV.) 

SCENE   I. — A  street  in  Lyons. 

Enter  C apt.  Gervais,  Lieut.  Dupo.nt,  and  Major  Desmoulins,  l. 

Capt   Gervais.  This  Lyons  is  a  fine  city  !  your  birth-place,  I  think  ? 

Lieut.  Dupont.  Yes — it  is  just  two  years  and  a  half  since  I  left  it  un- 
der the  command  of  the  brave  Colonel  Damas;  here  we  are  returned 
— he  a  General,  I  a  Lieutenant. 

Major  Desmodlins.  Ay,  promotion  is  rapid  in  the  French  army.  Nov/ 
the  war  in  Italy  is  over,  I  hope  he  will  find  employment  for  our  regiment 
elsewhere. 

Capt.  G.  Well,  I  hope  so,  too.     Here  comes  the  General. 

Enter  General  Damas,  l. 

Damas.  Good  day,  gentlemen,  good  day ;  so  here  we  are  in  Lyons, 
improved  since  we  left  it.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  grow  old  when  the  years 
that  bring  decay  to  ourselves  ripen  the  prosperity  of  our  country. 

Capt.  G.  And  cover  our  gray  hairs  with  the  laurel  wreath,  General. 

Damas.  I  hope  you  will  amuse  yourselves  during  our  stay  at  Lyons. 


ACT  T.]  THE   LADY    OF    LYONS.  41 

Capt.  G.  I  shall  make  the  best  use  of  my  time,  General  ;  but  I  Lave 
little  appetite  for  sight-seeing  without  Morier  ;  his  fine  taste  ami  exten- 
sive ini'ormatiou  quality  him  lor  a  professional  cicerone;  by  the  way, 
General,  this  is  the  anniversary  of  the  glorious  day  in  which  the  Colonel 
so  distinguished  himself. 

Damas.   Ah,  poor  Morier:  he  deserves  all  his  honors. 

Lieut.  D.  That  he  does  indeed.  General.  Pray,  cau  you  tell  us  who 
this  Morier  really  is? 

Damas.  Is  ! — why,  a  colonel  in  the  French  army. 

Major  D.   True  ;  but  what  was  he  at  first  ? 

Damas.  At  first  ?     Why,  a  baby  in  long  clothes,  I  suppose. 

Capt.  G.  Ha,  ha  !  Ever  facetious,  General.  Who  were  his  parents? 
Who  were  his  ancestors? 

Damas.   Brave  deeds  are  the  ancestors  of  brave  men. 

Lieut.  D.  (aside).  The  General  is  sore  upon  this  point;  you  will  ouly 
chafe  him.   (aloud)  Any  commands,  General? 

Damas.  None.     Good  day  to  you.  , 

[Exeunt  Majoii  Desmoulins  and  Lieut.  Dupoxt,  r. 

Damas.  Our  comrades  are  very  inquisitive.  Pooc  Morier  is  the  sub- 
ject of  a  vast  deal  of  curiosity. 

Capt.  G.  Say  interest,  rather,  General.  His  constant  melancholy,  the 
loneliness  of  his  habits — his  daring  valor,  his  brilliant  rise  in  the  profes- 
sion— your  friendship,  and  the  favors  of  the  commander-in-chief — all 
tend  to  make  him  as  much  the  matter  of  gossip  as  of  admiration.  But 
where  is  he.  General  ?     I  have  missed  him  all  the  morning. 

Damas.  Why,  Captain,  I'll  let  you  into  a  secret.  My  young  friend 
has  come  with  me  to  Lyons  in  hopes  of  finding  a  miracle. 

Capt.  G.  A  miracle  ! 

Damas.  Yes,  a  miracle!  in  other  words,  a  constant  woman. 

Capt  G.  Oh,  an  affair  of  love  ! 

Damas.  Exactly  so.  No  sooner  did  he  enter  Lyons  than  he  waved 
his  hand  to  me,  threw  himself  from  his  horse,  and  is  now,  I  warrant, 
asking  every  one  who  can  know  anything  about  the  matter,  whether  a 
certain  lady  is  still  true  to  a  certain  [lentleman  ! 

Capt.  G  Success  to  him  ! — and  of  that  success  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
The  gallant  Colonel  Morier,  the  hero  of  Lodi,  might  make  his  choice  out 
of  the  proudest  families  in  Fiance. 

Damas.  Oh,  if  pride  be  a  recommendation,  the  lady  and  her  mother 
are  most  handsomely  endowed.  By  the  way,  Captain,  if  you  should 
chance  to  meet  with  Morier,  tell  him  he  will  find  me  at  the  hotel. 

Capt.  G.  I  will,  General  [Exit,  R. 

Damas.  Now  will  I  go  to  the  Deschappelles,  and  make  a  report  to  my 
young  Colonel.  Ha !  by  Mars,  Bacchus,  Apollo,  Virorum,  here  comes 
Monsieur  Beauseant ! 

Enter  Beauseant,  r. 

Good  morning,  Monsieur  Beauseant !     How  fares  it  with  you? 

Beau,  {aside).  Damas!  that  is  unfortunate  !—  if  the  Italian  campaign 
should  have  filled  his  pockets,  he  may  seek  to  baffle  me  in  the  moment 
of  my  victory,  (aloud)  Your  servant,  General — for  such,  I  think,  is 
your  new  distinction.     Just  arrived  in  Lyons  ? 

Damas.  Not  an  hour  ago.  Well,  how  go  on  the  Deschappelles  ?  Have 
they  forgiven  you  in  that  affair  of  young  Melnotte?  You  had  some 
band  in  that  rotable  device — eh  ? 

Beau.  Why,  less  than  you  think  for !  The  fellow  imposed  upon  me. 
I  have  set  it  all  right  now.  What  has  become  of  him  ?  He  could  not 
bave  joined  the  army,  after  all.     There  is  no  such  name  in  the  books. 


42  THE    LADY    OF   LYONS.  [ACT  Y. 

Damas.  I  know  nothing  about  Meiuotte.  As  you  say,  I  never  heard 
the  name  in  the  Grand  Army. 

Beau.   Hem  !     You  are  not  married,  General  1 

Damas.  Do  I  look  like  a  married  man,  sir?  No,  thank  Heaven!  My 
profession  is  to  make  widows,  not  wives. 

Beau.  You  must  have  gained  much  booty  in  Italy  ?  Pauline  will  be 
your  heiress — eh  1 

Damas.  Booty!  Not  I.  Heiress  to  what?  Two  trunks  and  a  port- 
manteau— four  horses — three  swords — twu  suits  of  regimentals,  and  six 
pairs  of  white  leather  inexpressibles  !  A  pretty  fortune  for  a  youn<* 
lady  ! 

Bkau.  (aside).  Then  all  is  safe!  (aloud)  Ha!  ha!  Is  that  really  all 
your  capital,  General  Damas  ?  Why,  I  thought  Italy  had  been  a  second 
Mexico  to  you  soldiers. 

Damas.  All  a  toss-up,  sir.  I  was  not  one  of  the  lucky  ones  !  My 
friend  Morier,  indeed,  saved  something  handsome.  But  our  command- 
er-in-chief took  care  of  him,  and  Mcrier  is  a  thrifty,  economical  dog — 
not  like  the  rest  of  us  soldiers,  who  spend  our  money  as  carelessly  as  if 
it  were  our  blood. 

Beau.  Well,  it  is  no  matter.  I  do  not  want  fortune  with  Pauline. 
And  you  must  know,  General  Damas,  that  your  fair  cousin  has  at  length 
consented  to  reward  my  long  and  ardent  attachment. 

Damas.  You  !  the  devil  !  AVhy,  she  is  already  married  !  There  is  no 
divorce  ! 

Beau.  True  ;  but  this  very  day  she  is  formally  to  authorize  the  ne- 
cessary proceedings — this  very  day  she  is  to  sign  Ihe  contract  that  is  to 
make  her  mine  within  one  week  from  the  day  on  which  her  present  il- 
legal marriage  is  annulled. 

Damas.  You  tell  me  wonders !  Wonders  !  No  ;  I  believe  anything 
of  women  ! 

Beau.  I  must  wish  you  good  morning! 

As  he  is  going  l.,  enter  Deschappelles,   l. 

M.  Deschap.  Oh,  Beauseant!  well  met.  Let  us  come  to  the  notary 
at  once. 

Damas  {to  Descuappelles).  Why,  cousin  ! 

M.  Drschap.  Damas,  welcome  to  Lyons!  Pray  call  on  us  ;  my  wife 
will  be  deliahted  to  see  you. 

Damas.  Your  wife — blessed  for  her  condescension  !  But  [taking  him 
aside)  what  do  I  hear  ?  Is  it  possible  lhat  your  daughter  has  consented 
to  a  divorce? — that  she  will  marry  Monsieur  Beauseant] 

M.  Deschap.  Certainly  !  What  have  you  to  say  against  it  ?  A  gen- 
tleman of  birth,  fortune,  character.  We  are  not  so  proud  as  we  were  ; 
even  my  wife  has  had  enough  of  nobility  and  princes  ! 

Damas    But  Pauline  loved  that  young  man  so  tenderly  ! 

M.  Deschap.  {talcing  snuff).   That  was  two  years  and  a  half  ago  ! 

Damas.  Very  true.     Poor  Melnotte  ! 

M.  Deschap.  But  do  not  talk  of  that  impostor  ;  I  hope  he  is  dead  or 
has  left  the  country.  Nay,  even  were  he  in  Lyons  at  this  moment,  lie 
ousrht  to  rejoice  that,  in  an  honorable  and  suitable  alliance,  my  daugh- 
ter may  forget  her  sufferings  and  his  crime. 

Damas.  Nay,  if  it  be  all  settled,  I  have  no  more  to  say.  Monsieur 
Beauseant  informs  me  that  the  contract  is  to  be  signed  (his  very  day. 

M.  Deschap.  It  is;  at  one  o'clock  precisely.  Will  you  be  one  of  the 
witnesses  1 

Damas.  I  ?  No;  that  is  to  say— yes,  certainly— at  one  o'clock  I  will 
wait  on  you. 


ACT  V.]  THE    LADT    OF    LYONS.  43 

M.  Df.schap.  Till  then,  adieu — come,  Beauseant. 

[Exeunt  Beauseant  and  Deschapfelles,  l. 
Damas.  The  man  who  sets  his  heart  upon  a  woman 
Is  a  chameleon,  and  doth  feed  on  air  ; 
From  air  he  takes  his  colors— holds  his  life — 
Changes  with  every  wind — grows  lean  or  fat, 
Rosy  with  hope,  or  green  with  jealousy, 
Or  pallid  with  despair — just  as  the  gale 
Varies  from  north  to  south — from  heat  to  cold  ! 
0,  woman  !  woman  !  thou  shouldst  have  few  sins 
Of  thine  own  to  answer  for  !     Thou  art  the  author 
Of  such  a  book  of  follies  in  man, 
That  it  would  need  the  tears  of  all  the  angels 
To  blot  the  record  out ! 

Enter  Melnotte,  pale  and  agitated,  r. 

I  need  not  tell  thee !     Thou  hast  heard 

Mel.  The  worst ! 

I  have  !  (crosses,  l.) 
Damas.  Be  cheer'd  ;  others  are  fair  as  she  is  ! 

Mel.   Others  !     The  world  is  crumbled  at  my  feet! 

She  was  my  world  ;  flll'd  up  the  whole  of  being — 

Smiled  in  the  sunshine — walk'd  the  glorious  earth — 

Sate  in  my  heart — was  the  sweet  life  of  life. 

The  past  was  hers  ;  I  dreamt  not  of  a  future 

That  did  not  wear  her  shape !     Mem'ry  and  Hope 

Alike  are  gone.     Pauline  is  faithless  ! 
Damas.  Hope  yet. 
Mel.  Hope,  yes! — one  hope  is  left  me  still — 

A  soldier's  grave  !  (after  a  pause)  But  am  I  not  deceived  1 

I  went  but  by  the  rumor  of  the  town  ; 

Rumor  is  false — I  was  too  hasty  !     Damas, 

Whom  hast  thou  seen  1 
Damas.  Thy  rival  and  her  father. 

Arm  thyself  for  the  truth.     He  heeds  not 

Mel.  She 

Will  never  know  how  deeply  she  was  loved. 
Damas.  Be  a  man  ! 

Mel.    I  am  a  man  ! — it  is  the  sting  of  woe 

Like  mine  that  tells  us  we  are  men  ! 
Damas.  The  false  one 

Did  not  deserve  thee. 
Mel.  Hush  !     No  word  against  her  ! 

Why  should  she  keep,  through  years  and  silent  absence, 

The  holy  tablets  of  her  virgin  faith 

True  to  a  traitor's  name  !     Oh,  blame  her  not; 

It  were  a  sharper  grief  to  think  her  worthless 

Than  to  be  what  I  am  !     To-day — to-day  ! 

They  said  "  To-day  !"     This  day,  so  wildly  welcomed — 

This  day,  my  soul  had  singled  out  of  time 

And  mark'd  for  bliss !     This  day  !  oh,  could  I  see  her, 

See  her  once  more  unknown  ;  but  hear  her  voice. 
Damas.  Easily  done  !     Come  with  me  to  her  house ; 

Your  dress — your  cloak — mustache — the  bronzed  hues 

Of  time  and  toil — the  name  you  bear — belief 

In  your  absence,  all  will  ward  away  suspicion. 


44  THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  [aCI  Y. 

Keep  in  the  shade.     Ay,  I  would  have  you  come. 

There  may  he  hope !     Pauline  is  yet  so  young, 

They  may  have  forced  her  to  these  second  bridals 

O.it  of  mistaken  love. 
Mel.  No,  bid  me  not  hope  ! 

Bid  me  not  hope  !     I  could  not  bear  again 

To  fall  from  such  a  heaven  !     Oh,  Damas, 

There's  no  such  thing  as  courage  in  a  man  ; 

The  veriest  slave  that  ever  crawled  from  danger 

Miaht  spurn  me  now.     When  first  I  lost  her,  Damas, 

I  bore  it,  did  I  not  1     I  still  had  hope, 

And  now  I — I — {bursts  into  an  agony  of grief ') 
Damas.  What,  comrade  !   all  the  women 

Thnt  ever  smiled  destruction  on  brave  hearts 

Were  not  worth  tears  like  these ! 
Mel.    {crossing  to  r  ).  'Tis  past — forget  it. 

1  am  prepared  ;  life  has  no  further  ills  ' 
Damas.  Come,  Melnotte,  rouse  thyself  ; 

One  effort  more.     Again  thou'lt  see  her. 
Mel.  See  her ! 

Damas.  Time  wanes;  come,  ere  it  yet  be  too  late. 
Mel.  "Too  late!" 

Lead  on.     One  last  look  more,  and  then 

Damas.  Forget  her  ! 

Mel.    Forget  her!  yes — for  death  remembers  not  !    [Exeunt,  l. 

SCENE  II. — A  room  in  tne  house  of  M.  Deschappelles  ;  not  so  richly 
furnished  as  in  the  First  Act ;  Pauline  seated,  in  great  dejection,  at  a 
table,  r. 

Pauline.  It  is  so,  then.     I  must  be  false  to  Love, 
Or  sacrifice  a  father!     Oh,  my  Claude, 
My  lover,  and  my  husband !     Have  I  lived 
To  pray  that  thou  mayest  find  some  fairer  boon 
Than  the  deep  faith  of  this  devoted  heart — 
Nourish'd  till  now — now  broken  1 

Enter  Monsieur  Deschappelles,  l. 

M.  Deschap.  My  dear  child, 

How  shall  I  thank — how  bless  thee?     Thou  hast  saved, 
I  will  not  say  my  fortune — I  could  bear 
Reverse,  and  shrink  not — but  that  prouder  wealth 
W  Inch  merchants  value  most — my  name,  my  credit — 
The  hard-won  honors  of  a  toilsome  life  ; 
These  thou  hast  saved,  my  child  ! 

Pauline.  Is  there  no  hope  1 

No  hope  but  this  1 

M.  Deschap.  None.     If,  without  the  sum 

Which  Beauseant  offers  for  thy  hand,  this  day 
Sinks  to  the  west — to-morrow  brings  our  ruin  ! 
And  hundreds,  mingled  in  that  ruin,  curse 
The  bankrupt  merchant!  and  the'insolvent  herd 
We  feasted  and  made  merry,  cry  in  scorn, 
':  How  pride  has  fallen  !     Lo,  the  bankrupt  merchant!" 
My  daughter,  thou  hast  saved  us 

Pauline.  And  I  am  lost ! 


ACT   V  J  THE    LVDY    OF    LYONS.  45 

M.  Deschap.  Come,  let  us  hope  ihat  Beauseant's  love 

Pauline.  His  love  ' 

Talk  not  of  love.     Love  has  no  thought  of  self  ! 

Love  buys  not  with  the  ruthless  usurer's  gold 

The  loathsome  prostitution  of  a  hand 

Without  a  heart !     Love  sacrifices  all  things 

To  bless  the  thing  it  loves  !     He  knows  not  love. 

Father,  his  love  is  hate — his  hope  revenge  ! 

My  tears,  my  anguish,  my  remorse  for  falsehood — 

These  are  the  joys  that  he  wrings  from  our  despair  ! 
M.  Deschap.  If  thou  deem'st  thus,  reject  him.     Shame  and  ruin 

Were  better  than  thy  misery  ;   think  no  more  on't. 

My  sand  is  well-nigh  run — what  boots  it  when 

The  glass  is  broken  1     We'll  annul  the  contract; 

And  if  to-morrow  in  the  prisoner's  cell 
•   These  age  1  limbs  are  laid,  why  still,  iny  child, 

I'll  think  thou  art  spared;  and  wait  the  Liberal  Hour 

That  lays  the  beggar  by  the  side  of  kings  ! 
Pauline.  No — no — forgive  me!     You,  my  honored  father — 

You.  who  so  loved,  so  cherish' d  me,  whose  lips 

Never  knew  one  harsh  word  !     I'm  not  ungrateful ; 

I  am  but  human — hush!     Now,  call  the  bridegroom. 

You  see  I  am  prepared — no  tears — all  calm  ; 

But,  father,  talk  no  more  of  love  ! 
M  Deschap.  My  child, 

'Tis  but  one  struggle;  he  is  young,  rich,  noble  ; 

Thy  state  will  rank  first  'mid  the  dames  of  Lyons  ; 

And  when  this  heart  can  shelter  thee  no  more, 

Thy  youth  will  not  be  guardianless. 
Pauline.  I  have  set 

My  foot  upon  the  ploughshare.  (M  Descuap.  retires)  I  will  pass 

The  fiery  ordeal,  (aside)  Merciful  Heaven  support  me  ! 

And  on  the  absent  wanderer  shed  the  light 

Of  happier  stars — lost  evermore  to  me? 

Enter,  c.  l.,  Madame  Deschapplles,  Beauseant,  Glavis,  and  Notary, 
who  confers  with  M.  Deschappelles,  and  then  sits  at  table,  k. 

Mme  Deschap.  Why,  Pauline,  you  are  quite  in  deshabille— you oiuht 
to  be  more  alive  to  the  importance  of  this  joyful  occasion.  We  had  once 
looked  higher,  it  is  true;  but  you  see,  after  all,  Monsieur  Beauseant's 
father  was  a  Marquis,  and  that's  a  great  comfort.  Pedigree  and  join- 
ture— you  have  them  both  in  Monsieur  Beauseant.  A  young  lady  dec- 
orously brought  up  should  only  have  two  considerations  in  her  choice 
of  a  husband  ;  first,  is  his  birth  honorable?  secondly,  will  his  death  be 
advantageous  1  All  other  trifling  details  should  be  left  to  parental  anx- 
iety. 

Beau.  (l.  c,  approaching  and  leaving  aside  Madame).  Ah,  Pauline! 
let  ni3  hope  that  you  are  reconciled  to  an  event  which  confers  such  rap- 
ture upon  me. 

Pauline.  I  am  reconciled  to  my  doom. 

Beau.    Doom  is  a  harsh  word,  sweet  lady. 

Pauline  (aside).  This  man  must  have  some  mercy — his  heart  cannot 
be  marble,  {aloud)  Oh,  sir,  be  just— be  generous!  Seize  a  noble  tri- 
umph— a  groat,  revenge!     Save  the  father,  and  spare  the  child  ! 

Bkau.  {aside).  Joy — joy  alike  to  my  hatred  and  my  passion  !  The 
haughty  Pauline  is  at  last  my  suppliant,  (aloud)  You  ask  from  me  what 


4G 


Ti£K    LADY    OF    LYONS.  [ACT 


I  have  not  the  sublime  virtue  to  g'-ant — a  virtue  reserved  only  for  the 
gardener's  son !  I  cannot  forego  my  hopes  in  the  moment  of  their  ful- 
fillment!    I  adhere  to  the  contract — your  lather's  ruin  or  your  hand. 

Pauline.  Then  all  is  over.  Sir,  I  have  decided,  (the  clock  strikes  one. 
Beauseant  retires  to  l.  of  table  and  sits  examining  the  papers.) 

Enter  Damas  and  Melnotte,  l.  c. 

Damas.  Your  servant,  cousin  Deschappelles.  Let  me  introduce  Colo- 
nel Mo  tier. 

Mme.  Deschap.  [curtseying  very  low).  What,  the  celebrated  hero  1 
This  is,  indeed,  an  honor  !  (she  crosses ;  seems  to  converse  with  Melnotte, 
ivho  botvs  as  she  returns  to  the  table,  it.  ;  Melnotte  throws  himself  into  a 
chair,  l.  u.  e.) 

Damas  [to  Pauline).  My  little  cousin,  I  congratulate  you.  What,  no 
smile— no  blush  1  You  are  going  to  be  divorced  from  poor  Melnotte, 
and  many  this  rich  gentleman.     You  ought  to  be  excessively  happy  ! 

Pauline.   Happy ! 

Damas.  Why,  how  pale  you  are,  child!  Poor  Pauline!  Hist — con- 
fide in  me  !     Do  they  force  you  to  this  1 

Pauline.  No. 

Damas.  You  act  with  your  own  free  consent  1 

Pauline.  My  own  consent — yes. 

Damas.  Then  you  are  the  most — I  will  not  say  what  you  are. 

Pauline.  You  think  ill  of  me — be  it  so — yet  if  you  knew  all 

Damas.  There  is  some  mystery — speak  out,  Pauline. 

Pauline  (suddenly).  Oh,  perhaps  you  can  save  me  !  you  are  our  re- 
lation— our  friend.  My  father  is  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy — this  day 
he  requires  a  large  sum  to  meet  demands  that  cannot  be  denied  ;  that 
sum  Beauseant  will  advance — this  hand  the  condition  of  the  barter. 
Save  me  if  you  have  the  means — save  me !     You  will  be  repaid  above  ! 

Damas  (aside).  I  recant.  Women  are  not  so  bad  after  all !  (aloud) 
Humph,  child  !     I  cannot  help  you — I  am  too  poor. 

Pauline.  The  last  plank  to  which  I  clung  is  shivered. 

Damas.  Hold— you  see  my  friend  Morier  ;  Melnotte  is  his  most  inti- 
mate friend— fought  in  the  same  fields— slept  in  the  same  tent.  Have 
you  any  message  to  send  to  Melnotte  1  any  word  to  soften  this  blow  ? 
(she  botvs  ;  Damas  goes  to  Melnotte,  toho  rises  and  comes  forward,  l.  c.) 

Pauline.  He  knows  Melnotte — he  will  see  him — he  will  bear  to  him 
my  last  farewell,  (approaches  Melnotte  ;  he  bows  to  her,  and  overcome  by 
his  emotion,  turns  toward  l.)  He  has  a  stern  air— he  turns  away  from  me — 
he  despises  me  !    Sir,  one  word,  I  beseech  you  ! 

Mel.  (aside).  Her  voice  again.     How  the  old  time  comes  o'er  me  ! 

Damas  (/o  Madame).  Don't  interrupt  them.  He  is  going  to  tell  her 
what  a  rascal  young  Melnotte  is ;  he  knows  him  well,  I  promise  you. 

Mme.  Deschap.  So  considerate  in  you,  cousin  Damas  ! 

Damas    approaches  Deschappelles  ;    converses   apart  with   him  in  dumb 
show — Deschappelles  shows  him  a  paper,  which  he  inspects  and  takes. 

Pauline.  Thrice  have  I  sought  to  speak  ;  my  courage  fails  me. 

Sir,  is  it  true  that  you  have  known — nay,  are 

The  friend  of— Melnotte  ? 
Mbl.  Lady,  yes!     Myself 

And  misery  know  the  man ! 
Pauline.  And  you  will  see  him, 

And  you  will  bear  to  him — ay — word  for  word, 


ACT  V.]  THE    LADY    OF    LVuNS.  47 

All  that  this  heart,  which  breaks  in  parting  from  him, 

Would  send,  ere  still  for  ever  .' 
Mel.  Lad}',  speak  on  ! 

Paulixe.  Tell  him,  for  years  I  never  nursed  a  thought 

That  was  not  his  ;  that  on  his  wandering  way, 

Daily  and  nightly,  pour'd  a  mourner's  prayers; 

Tell  him  e'en  now  that  I  would  rather  share 

His  lowliest  lot — walk  by  his  side,  an  outcast — 

Work  for  him,  beg  with  him — live  upon  the  light, 

Of  one  kind  smile  from  him — than  wear  the  crown 

The  Bourbon  lost  i 
Mel.  (aside).  Am  I  already  mad  1 

(aloud)  You  love  him  thus,  and  yet  desert  him  ? 
Pauline.  Say,  that  if  his  eyes 

Could  read  this  heart — its  struggles,  its  temptations — 

His  love  itself  would  pardon  that  desertion  ! 

Look  on  that  poor  old  man — he  is  my  father; 

He  stands  upon  the  verge  of  an  abyss  ! — 

He  calls  his  child  to  save  him  !     Shall  I  shrink 

From  him  who  gave  me  birth  ? — withhold  my  hand, 

And  see  a  parent  perish  1     Tell  him  this, 

And  say — that  we  shall  meet  again  in  heaven  ! 
Mel.    Night  is  past — joy  cometh  with  the  morrow  ! 

(goes^  to  Damas,   ivho  is  l.  )    What  is  this  riddle  ? — what  is  the 
nature  of  this  sacrifice  ? 
Beau,  (at  the  table).  The  papers  are  prepared — we  only  need 

Your  hand  and  seal. 
Mel.  Stay,  lady — one  word  more. 

Were  but  your  duty  with  your  faith  united, 

Would  you  still  share  the  low-born  peasant's  lot"? 
Pauline.  Would  17     All.  better  death  with  I  him  love 

Than  all  the  pomp — which  is  but  as  the  flowers 

That  crown  the  victim  !  {turning  aicay)  I  am  ready. 
(Melnotte  goes  to  Damas,  who  has  taken  the  paper  from  the  table.) 
Damas  (showing  paper).  There — 

This  is  the  schedule — this  the  total. 
Beau,  (to  Descuappellel,  showing  notes).  These 

Are  yours  the  instant  she  has  sigu'd  ;  you  are 

Still  the  great  house  of  Lyons  ! 

The  Notary  is  about  to  hand  the  contract  to  Pauline,  when  Melnotte  seises 
it  and  tears  it. 

Bi:au.  (going  l.).  Are  you  mad  1 

M.  Deschap.  (l.  c).  How,  sir.     What  means  this  insult  ? 

Mel.  (c.)  Peace,  old  man  ! 

I  have  a  prior  claim.     Before  the  face 

Of  man  and  Heaven  I  urge  it ;  I  outbid 

Yon  sordid  huckster  for  your  priceless  jewel,  (giving  a  pocket-book) 

There  is  the  sum  twice  told  !     Blush  not  to  take  it ; 

There's  not  a  coin  that  is  not  bought  and  hallow'd 

In  the  cause  of  nations  with  a  soldier's  blood  ! 
Beau.  Torments  and  death  ! 

Pauline.  That  voice  !     Thou  art 

Mel.  Thy  husband  ! 

(Pauline  rushes  into  his  arms) 

Look  op!     Look  up,  Pauline — for  1  can  bear 


48  THE    LADY    OF    LTOISS.  [ACT  T. 

Thine  eyes !     The  stain  is  blotted  from  my  name. 

I  have  redeem'd  mine  honor.     I  can  call 

On  Fiance  to  sanction  thy  divine  forgiveness! 

Oh,  joy  ! — oh,  rapture  !     By  the  midnight  watchfires 

Thus  have  I  seen  thee !   thus  foretold  this  hour  ! 

And  'midst  the  roar  of  battle,  thus  have  heard 

The  beating  of  ihy  heart  against  my  own  ! 

(places  Pauline  in  a  chair — the  Notary  goes  off,  l.  c.) 
Beau.  Fool'd,  duped,  and  triumph'd  over  in  the  hour 

Of  mine  own  victory  !     Curses  on  ye  both  ! 

May  thorns  be  planted  in  the  marriage-bed! 

And  love  grow  sour'd  and  blacken'd  into  hate — 

Such  as  the  hate  that  gnaws  me ! 
Damas.  Curse  away  ! 

And  let  me  tell  thee,  Beauscant,  a  wise  proverb 

The  Arabs  have:  "Curses  are  like  young  chickens, 

{solemnly)  And  still  come  home  to  roost  !  " 
Beau.  Their  happiness 

Maddens  my  soul !     I  am  powerless  and  revengeless  ! 

(/o  Madame)  I  wish  you  joy!     Ha!  ha!   the  gardener's  son  ! 

[Exit,  l.  c. 
(Pauline  rises  and  comes  forward,  r.  c.     Claude  grasps  Damas'  hand.) 
Pauline.  Oh! 

My  father,  you  are  saved — and  by  my  husband  ! 

Ah!  blessed  hour !  (she  embraces  Melnotte.)  * 

Mel.  Yet  you  weep  still,  Pauline  ! 

Pauline.  But  on  thy  breast — these  tears  are  sweet  and  holy  ! 
M.  Descuap.  You  have  won  love  and  honor  nobly,  sir ! 

Take  her — be  happy  both ! 
Mme.  Deschap.  I'm  all  astonished  ! 

Who,  then,  is  Colonel  Morier  ? 
Damas.  You  behold  him  ! 

Mel.  Morier  no  more  after  this  happy  day  !  (crosses,  r.  c.) 

I  would  not  bear  again  my  father's  name 

Till  I  could  deem  it  spotless  !     The  hour's  come  ! 

Heaven  smiled  on  conscience  !     As  the  soldier  rose 

From  rank  to  rank,  how  sacred  was  the  fame 

That  cancell'd  crime,  and  raised  him  nearer  thee ! 
Mme.  Descuap.  A  colonel  and  a  hero!     Well,  that's  something  ! 

He's  wondrously  improved  !  (crosses  to  him)  I  wish  you  joy,  sir  ! 
Mel.    All !  the  same  love  that  tempts  us  into  sin, 

If  it  be  true  love,  works  out  its  redemption  ! 

And  he  who  seeks  repentance  for  the  past 

Should  woo  the  Augel  Virtue  in  the  future. 

Madame  Deschappelles.       Melnotte.       Pauline. 
r.  c.  c.  l.  c. 

M.  Deschappelles.  Damas. 

r.  L. 

CURTAIN. ' 


MONEY. 


COPTIUGHT,   1873,  BY  ROBERT  M.  DE  WlTT. 


ORIGINAL  CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

Theatre  Royal,      Old  rarlc  Theatre, 
Haymarket,  JVew  Yuri; 

Dec.  8,1840.  .Fed.  1,1841. 

Alfred  Evelyn Mr.  Macready.       Mr.  Hield. 

Sir  John  Vesey Mr.  Strickland.    Mr.  Chippendale. 

Lord  Glossmore Mr.  F.  Viking.         Mr.  C.  W.  Clarke 

Sir  Frederick  Blount Mr.  Walter  Lact  Mr.  A.  Anderson. 

Benjamin  Stout Mr.  D.  Reece.  Mr.  GtTNN. 

Graves Mr.  B.  Webster,    Mr.  Fisher. 

Captain  Dudley  Smooth Mr.  Wrench.  Mr.  Nickerson. 

Sharp Mr.  Waldron.        Mr.  Bedford. 

Old  Member Mr.  Wilmott. 

Toke Mr.  Oxberry. 

MacFinch Mr.  Gough. 

Crimson  (a  Portrait  Painter) Mr.  Gallot. 

MacStucco Mr.  Matthews. 

Patent  (a  Coachmaker) Mr.  Clarke. 

Frantz  (a  Tailor) Mr.  O.  Smith. 

Tabouret  (an  Upholsterer) Mr.  Howe. 

Grab  (a  Publisher) Mr.  Caulfield. 

Clara  Douglas '. Miss  H.  Faucit.      Mrs.  Maedeb. 

Lady  Franklin  Mrs.  Glover.  Mrs.  Vernon. 

Georgina Miss  P.  Hortos.      Mrs.  Chippendale. 

Officer,  Club  Members,  Flat,  Green,  Waiters  at  Club,  Pages,  Servants. 


TIME  IN  REPRESENTATION— THREE  HOURS  AND  A  HALF. 


SCENERY. 

ACT  J.— Scene  1.— A  Drawing-room  in  Sir  John  Vesey's  house. 

. . .  .Drawing-room  beyond .... 


4th  grooves. |  Folding  doors.  | 4th  grooves. 

Chair.*      *  Chair. 


Chair.* 
B.3E._ Chair.*  O 

Table 


Chairs. 


B.  2  E.- 


Chair.* 


Chair.* 


Chair.*  l.  3  e. 

Chair.* 

o 

Table.    *  Chair. 

E.  2  E. 


Chair. 


Writing 
Table. 


B.  1  E.- 


-L.  1   E. 


A  handsomely  furnished,  carpeted  apartment.  Folding  doors  open,  showing  anothei 
handsome  room  beyond,  b.  h.,  handsome  table,  upon  which  are  newspapers,  books, 
etc.  l.  h.,  another  table,  smaller,  and  near  there  a  secretary  writing-table,  with  a 
dozen  chairs  placed  in  the  positions  indicated. 


MONEY. 


ACT  11 — Scene  1. — An  Ante-room  in  Evelyn's  house.  Small  table  it,  h.  Writ- 
ing-desk and  materials  l.  h.     Chairs  r.  h   and  l.  h.     Door  l.  c.  f. 

Scene  2.— Drawing-room  in  But  John  Vf.sey's  house,  as  before.  Portfolio  and 
drawings  upon  the  side  table. 

ACT  111.— Scene  1. — Drawing-room  in  Sir  John  Vesey's  house,  as  before.  Tlie 
scene  so  arranged  as  to  allow  the  next  scene  to  close  in. 

Scent  2.— Boudoir  in  Sir  John  Vesf.y's  house.  The  flats  in  the  second  groove  rep- 
resent a  handsome  apartment.     Two  chairs  are  brought  on  by  the  Page. 

Scene  3.— Grand  saloon  at  Evelyn's  club  house. 


4th  grooves. |  Entrance. 


-4th  grooves. 


Member  reading  book. 
n.  3  e. *  O  * 


Waiters. 


Table. 

B.  2  E. 

Member,  seated.* 
Smooth.* (  J* 
Table  with  lemonade  on. 

R.  1  e. 


Newspapers,  books, : 
pens,  ink,  etc.       : 

Pack  of  cards,  and  '. 
cup  of  coffee.       : 


Four  members  standing. 

* 

Q        L.  3  E. 

Table.    * 
Three  Members. 


-L.  2  E. 


*  Stout,  with  newspaper. 
Old  member, 

*  i"\  *  wi(k  T'mes- 

Glossmor*:.  \J 

Table.      L.  1  e. 


An  elegantly  furnished  saloon  with  tables  and  chairs,  and  the  other  articles  placed 
as  shown  in  the  diagram. 

ACT  IV.— Scene  1.— An  ante-room  in  Evelyn's,  as  before. 

Scene  2.— A  splendid  saloon  in  Evelyn's  mansion. 
Dining-Room. 


Chairs.  :        Table. 


Chairs. 


4th  grooves I    Folding  Doors.    | 4th  grooves. 


Chairs.  * 


r.  3e. — r\ 

Chair.*  Table. 


*  Chairs.  * 

/"\ l.  S  e. 

Table. 


Chairs.     l.  2  e. 


Chairs. 


B.   1   K. 


-L.  1  E. 


A  magnificently  furnished  saloon,  with  paintings,  etc.  Two  tables,  r.  h.  and  L.  h., 
with  candelabra.  Chairs  placed  in  the  positions  indicated.  Folding  doors  c.  f. 
Beyond  them  the  interior  of  the  dining-room,  with  chairs  arranged  for  the  guests- 
table  spread  tor  dinner.    Candelebra,  etc. 

ACT  r.— Scene  1.— Boom  at  Evelyn's  club  house.  Handsomelv  furnished. 
Tables  r.  h.  and  l.  h.  Cloth  and  breakfast  pieces  on  the  table  l.  h.  Doors  c.  f. 
Two  chairs  at  each  table.    Papers,  etc.,  on  table  r.  h. 

Scene  2.— Drawing-room  in  Sir  John  Vesey's  house,  as  before. 

Scene  3.— Saloon  in  Evelyn's  mansion,  as  before. 


COSTUMES. 

So  far  as  the  costumes  of  this  play  are  concerned,  there  is  nothing  so  very  partic- 
ular in  the  text,  as  in  the  previous  plays,  to  rigidly  compel  an  adherence  to  the  one 
style  of  the  one  particular  period. 

At  the  time  the  play  was  produced  there  was  a  very  peculiar  style  of  fashion  pre- 
vailing in  London.  The  Count  D'Orsay  was  the  leader,  the  model  in  fact.  He  was 
at  that  time  considered  one  of  the  most  elegant  and  accomplished  gentlemen;  in- 
deed, he  might  be  termed  the  "  Beau  Brummell "  of  the  period.  It  was  the  "  D'Or- 
say hat,"  the  "  D'Orsay  coat,"  the  "  D'Orsay  vest,"  and  "  D'Orsay  boots  ;"  in  fact, 
everything  in  a  fashionable  West-end  store  bore  the  title. 

As  this  play  was  originally  played,  the  above  style  of  costume  was  adopted ;  but 
there  is  no  actual  necessity  for  it,  and  the  costumes  now  given  are  expressly  com- 
piled for  this  edition  of  the  work— observing  a  medium  course  between  the  past  and 
present ;  but  they  may  be  altered,  according  to  the  manager's  views,  to  the  leading 
fashions  prevailing  at  the  time  when  the  play  is  produced. 

Alfred  Evelyn.— 1st  Dress:  Frock  coat  and  vest,  black;  dark  trousers;  black 
necktie  ;  boots.  2d  Dress :  Dark-blue  frock  coat ;  fancy  mixture  trousers  and 
vest  ;  patent-leather  boots  ;  neck  scarf ;  riding  gloves  and  hat.  In  Act  IV.,  a 
handsome  dressing-gown,  silk-lined,  etc. ;  and  then  in  Scene  2,  black  dress-coat, 
white  vest,  black  trousers,  plain  black  necktie,  patent-leather  boots.  Act  V.  : 
The  same,  or  a  similar  dress,  to  the  one  secondly  described. 
Sir  John  Vesey.— Black  dress-coat  and  trousers,  white  vest  and  cravat,  pair  of 

gold-mounted  eyeglasses,  with  black  silk  ribbon  ;  hair  white. 
Lord  Glossmore. — Black  frock  coat  and  trousers,  fancy  vest,  patent-leather  boots, 

scarf,  and  kid  gloves.     In  Act  IV.,  usual  dress  for  a  fashionable  dinner-party. 
Sir  Frederick  Blount  — In  the  1st  Act,  a  plain  black  suit— handsome  garments  of 
any  color,  but  made  in  the  highest  fashion  and  of  the  very  best  quality— rich 
silk  handkerchiefs,  and  very  fine  light-colored  overcoat,  etc.* 
Stout.— Blue  cloth  coat  with  broad  tails  :  velvet  vest,  white  cravat,  and  stand-up 
collar  ;   Oxford  gray  trousers,  cloth  boots,  large  red  handkerchief,  white  hat 
with  black  band,  afterwards  removed. 
Graves.— Body  coat,  vest,  trousers,  and  gloves  all  black.    In  Act  III.,  a  colored 

silk  handkerchief. 
Captain  Dddley  Smooth.— \st  Dress  :  Dark  fashionable  morning  or  lounging  coat, 
vest,  and  trousers.     2d  Dress  :  Frock  coat  and  fancy  colored  vest  and  trousers, 
patent-leather  boots.    3d  Dress  ;  Usual  dress  for  a  fasionable  dinner-party. 
Sharp.— Plain  black  body  coat,  vest,  and  trousers  ;  white  cravat,  shoes. 
Old  Member.— Blue  colored  body  coat  with  gilt  buttons,  fancy  colored  vest,  nan- 
keen trousers,  shoes  and  cloth  gaiters,  white  scarf,  and  high  collar. 
Clara  Douglas.— 1st  Dress:  Plain  black  walking  dress  with  sleeves,  and  the  hair 
plain.    2d  Dress :  Fancy  muslin  dress,  ornamented,  but  not  too  much,  accom- 
panied by  rich  gold  bracelets,  etc.    3d  Dress  :  A  rich  dark  velvet  walking  cos- 
tume, and  handsome  ornaments. 
Lady  Franklin.— A  very  rich  and  gay  colored  silk  dress,  with  lace  shawl,  etc.    In 
Act  IV.,  handsome  evening  dress,  the  sleeves  being  short.    In  Act  V.,  a  hand- 
some morning  costume,  bonnet  and  lace  shawl. 
Georgina.— "White  muslin  dress  trimmed  fancifully  with  black  ribbons,  jet  orna- 
ments on  the  breast  and  the  wrists  of  the  long  sleeves  ;  neck-chain  of  jet.    In 
Act  II.,  similar  dress  varied  by  fancy  ribbons  and  gold  ornaments.    In  Act  IV., 
change  for  dress  for  a  fashionable  dinner-party.    In  Act  V.,  silk  dress,  fashion- 
ably cut  blue  mantle  and  trimmings  ;  hat  and  leather. 
Servants.— Those  belonging  to  Sir  John  Vesey  and  Alfred  Evelyn:  Plain  black 
body  coat,  vest,  and  knee-breeches,  white  stockiDgs  and  shoes.    Those  at  the 
Club  House  :  Puce  colored  body  coats,  with  large  brass  buttons,  velvet  plush 
vests  and  knee-breeches,  white  neckties  and  stockings,  shoes,  and  hair  powdered. 

*  All  actors  whom  I  have  seen  play  this  part  made  it  the  medium  for  the  display 
of  the  richest  and  most  fashionable  clothing. 


PROPERTIES. 

ACT  I.,  Scene  1. — Two  rich  tables  and  covers  ;  newspapers,  books  ;  twelve  chairs  ; 
carpet ;  a  secretaire  writing  table ;  writing  materials ;  black-edged  letter  ; 
watch  ;  purse  ;  banknote  ;  wine;  decanters;  glasses;  cake  ;  will  ;  letter  ; 

ACT  II.,  Scene  1.— Three  drawings  ;  bundle  with  new  coat  ;  writing  desk  and  ma- 
terials ;  table  ;  chairs  :  book  and  parchment ;  piece  of  gold  coin  ;  letter.  Scene 
2.— As  in  Act  I.,  with  the  addition  of  portfolio,  drawings  ;  a  portrait ;  letter,  as 
in  last. 

ACT  111.,  Scene  1.— Same  furniture,  etc.,  as  in  Act  I.,  Scene  1,  except  there  need 
not  be  so  many  chairs  ;  writing  materials  ;  letter.  Scene  2. — Two  chairs.  Scene 
3. — Five  tables  ;  twelve  chairs  ;  newspapers  ;  books;  writing  materials ;  play- 
ing cards  ;  coffee  cups  ;  large  round  snuff-box  ;  two  salvers  ;  glasses  ;  letter  ; 
note  ;  pocket-book  ;  wax  lights  in  candelabras  on  the  tables  ;  lemonade  and 
glasses. 

ACT  IV.,  Scene  1.— Two  tables;  two  chairs;  writing  materials;  pocket-book; 
checks.  Scene  2. — Two  tables  with  candelabra,  etc. ;  nine  chairs  ;  painting  ; 
letter  ;  paper  for  Sheriff's  officer  :  table  in  dining-room  at  back  ;  chairs  round 
it ;  dinner  service  spread  ;  candelabra  and  lights. 

ACT  V.,  Scene  1. — Two  tables;  four  chairs;  table  cloth  and  breakfast  things; 
glasses  and  wine  ;  letter ;  bill ;  salver  ;  large  and  shall  watches.  Scene  2.— 
Bell  pull  and  bell  without,  Scene  3. — Same  as  Act  IV.,  Scene  2.  Letter,  salver, 
writing  materials  on  table. 


EXPLANATION  OF  THE  STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 
The  Actor  is  supposed  to  face  the  Audience. 


7 


/ 


SCENE. 


L.  D.  E. 


B.3X. 
B.3S. 

/ 

R.  B.  0.  0.  t.  0. 

AUDIENCE. 


\ 


\ 


i-3  8. 
L.2E. 
L.  IE. 


i. 

\ 


\ 


l.  Left. 

L.  c.  Left  Centre. 

l.  1  e.  Left  First  Entrance. 

l.  2  E.  Left  Second  Entrance. 

l.  3  e.  Left  Third  Entrance. 

l.  v.  K.  Left  Upper  Entrance 

(wherever  this  Scene  may  be.) 

D.  l.  c.  Door  Left  Centre. 


c.  Centre. 

R.  Right. 

b.  1  e.  Eight  First  Entrance. 

R.  2  e.  Right  Second  Entrance 

r.  3  E.  Right  Third  Entrance. 

r.  u.  E.  Right  Upper  Entrance. 

r>.  r.  c-  Door  Bight  Centre. 


O  MONEY. 

BILL  FOR  PROGRAMMES,  Etc. 
The  events  of  this  play  take  place  in  London.     Period,  the  present  century, 
ACT    I. 
Scene  I.— DRAWING-ROOM  IN  SIR  JOHN  VESEY'S  HOUSE. 
The  Scheming  Baronet  and  his  Daughter — Death  of  a  Rich  Indian  Cousin 
—  The  Poor  Secretary  and  the  Poor  Ward — The  Story  of  Evelyn's  Love 
— Offer  of  Hand  and  Heart — Clara's  Rejection — A   Tale  of  Sorrow — 
The  Reading  of  the  Will — "  1  leave  all  the  residue  of  my  fortune  to 
Alfred  Evelyn." 

ACT    II. 

Scene  I.— AN  ANTE-ROOM  IN  EVELYN'S  NEW  MANSION. 

The  Troubles  of  Riches  -  Specimen  of  a  Political  Economist — Election 
Prospects — Bribery  and  Corruption — A  Game  of  Battledore  and  Shuttle- 
cock— The  Story  of  Evelyn's  Life  and  Struggles — The  Mysterious  Let- 
ter— "  Who  sent  it  ?    Clara  or  Georgina  ?  " 

Scene  II.— DRAWING-ROOM  AT  SIR  JOHN  VESEY'S. 
Mr.  Graves  and  his  "  Sainted  Maria" — A  Dangerous  Widoio — The  Baronets 
Cunning — An  Artful  Trick  to  Entrap  Evelyn — The  Portait — The  Bait 
Caught — The  Letter  was  from  Georgina — She  Sent  her  Savings  to  Re- 
lieve Distress —  The  Offer  of  Hand  and  Fortune  to  Georgina — Evelyn  is 
Accepted — Clara's  Agony — "  With  my  whole  heart  I  say  it — be  happy  !" 

ACT    III. 

Scene  I.— DRAWING-ROOMS  IN  SIR  JOHN  VESEY'S  HOUSE. 
Clouds  in  the  Horizon — Extravagance  and  Gambling — Rocks  Ahead — Clara's 
Departure  from  England — The  Warning  Voice  of  Love,  as  a  Sister — 
" Let  us  part   friends!"  —  Suspiciotis  of   Truth — Graves'    Story  of 
Georgina's  Flirtations — A  Trap  Set  for  the  Trapper. 

Scene  II.— BOUDOIR  IN  SIR  JOHN  VESEY'S  HOUSE. 
A  Widower  and  Widow  in  Love — The  Temptations  of  a  Charming  Woman 
— A  Cure  for  Melancholy — Dancing  and  a  Sweet   Voice —  Unpleasant 
Interruption. 

Scene  III.— GRAND  SALOON  AT  EVELYN'S  CLUB  HOUSE. 
A  Gentleman  and  a  Gambler — Captain  Deadly  Smooth's  Good  Luck — Plot 
and  Counterplot— Infatuation  in  Gaming— Loss  after  Loss — Evelyn's 
Ruin  Ajyproaching. 


MONEY.  7 

ACT    IV. 

Scene  I.— ANTE-ROOM  IN  EVELYNS  HOUSE. 

Morning  Calls — Debt  Against  Debt—Novel  Mode  of  Payment  by  Increasing 
— Not  Quite  Sharp  Enough. 

Scene  II.— SPLENDID  SALOON  IN  EVELYN'S  HOUSE. 

The  Plot  Tliickens — Evelyn  is  Drifting  Wrong — Suggcstionsfor  Assist- 
ance—" Will  Georgian  help  me? — £10,000  for  a  time  will  save  me" 
— An  Answer  Deferred— Unpleasant  Duns  and  a  Sherrijfs  Officer- 
Failure  of  Evelyn's  Bankers— Clamorous  Creditors— Pleasure 
Against  Charity — Desertion  of  Friends  as  the  Money  goes  Down  ! 


ACT    V. 

Scene  I.— A  ROOM  AT  THE  CLUB. 

More  News  of  the  Downfall — A  Friend  in  the  Scheme — Gcorgina's  Old  Love 

—  The  Eccentric  Baronet — Political  Intrigues — The  Mine  is  Ojiening. 

Scene  II.— DRAWING-ROOMS  IN  SIR  JOHN  VESEY'S  HOUSE. 

A  Devoted  Heart — A  Woman  in  Distress — The  Old  Love  Revived — If  he 
Can  be  Saved  he  Shall — Departure  of  Clara  to  see  Evelyn. 

Scene  III.— SPLENDID  SALOON  IN  EVELYN'S  HOUSE.' 

Money  Works  Wonders — A  Change  Jvoni  Respect  to  Infamy — "Tis  the 
way  of  the  World — £10,000  placed  at  Evelyn's  Bankers — Save/ — 
"'Tis  Georgina'sact—the  die  is  cast!" — Lovers  Alone— The  Story 
of  Clara's  Life— The  Reasons  for  Rejection — Hope  for  the  Future  — 
Too  Late!— Evelyn  Elected  a  Member  of  Parliament— The  .Mine  is 
Sprung— Startling  A'ews—Georgina  Marries  Sir  Frederick  Blount! 
"  Who,  then,  sent  the  money  to  my  bankers?"— The  Mystery  Solved 
—The  Letter  Explained— Clara  Douglas  .'—Acceptance  of  Evelyn 

—  The  Scheme  at  an  End— He  was  Never  Ruined— Only  a  Plot  to 

Show  the  Value  of 

MOJVE  Y. 


MONEY. 


THE  STOUT  OF  THE  PLAY. 

In  the  centre  of  the  most  fashionable  part  of  London  there  resided,  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  play,  Sir  John  Vesey,  Baronet,  ex-Member  of  Parliament,  etc., 
Fellow  of  ever  so  many  societies,  and  President  of  ever  so  many  Corporations  ;  in 
fact,  a  man  surrounded  by  all  the  attributes  of  wealth  and  high  political  and  social 
position.  Outwardly  well  polished,  he  had  naturally  a  large  and  influential  circle 
of  admiring  friends  and  cringing  flatterers ;  wealth  and  position;  like  honey,  attract 
many  flies— and  an  artifice  he  resorted  to  of  jetting  it  mooted  about  that  he  was 
hoarding  up  his  money,  gradually  acquired  him  the  name  of  "  Stingy  Jack,"  and 
stimulated  a  belief,  in  some  persons,  and  confirmed  the  opinion  of  others,  that  he 
really  was  a  most  highly  honorable  and  wealthy  gentleman,  though  somewhat 
eccentric,  and  that  his  only  daughter,  Georgina,  was  a  rich  heiress. 

The  fact,  however,  was  just  the  reverse.  He  had  been,  and  was,  playing  a  very 
deep  game  indeed  ;  he  was  in  every  respect  an  unprincipled  and  unsubstantial  man, 
—a  living  specimen,  though  more  advanced  in  years,  of  Dickens'  ever  to  be  remem- 
bered character,  Montague  Tigg,  alias  Tigg  Montague. 

The  members  of  Sir  John  Vesey's  household  were  Georgina,  his  daughter  ;  Lady 
Franklin,  his  half-sister  and  a  widow  ;  Clara  Douglas,  a  poor  orphan  cousin  and  his 
ward,  and  Alfred  Evelyn,  another  poor  cousin,  who  acted  as  his  private  secretary. 

As  to  Sir  John  himself— his  father  for  services  rendered  in  the  army  obtained  a 
title,  but  expended  all  available  means  in  keeping  it  up,  consequently  the  only  for- 
tune he  could  leave  his  son  was  the  title.  But  this  worthy  son  was  not  to  be  so 
easily  foiled.  On  the  strength  of  his  parent's  services,  he  obtained  a  pension  of 
£400  a  pear,  which  was  quite  sufficient  trading  capital  for  a  man  of  Sir  John's  ad- 
venturous disposition  and  tactics.  On  .£400  he  took  credit  for  £800 ;  upon  which 
credit  he  married  a  woman  with  £10,000,  and  increased  his  credit  to  £40,000.  Then 
it  was  that  he  worked  his  artful  scheme  and  paid  a  highly  respectable  but  impover- 
ished gentleman  so  much  per  week  to  mix  in  society  and  constantly  allude  to  him 
as  "  Stingy  Jack,"  upon  the  principle  that  if  a  man  of  position  is  called  "  stingy"  he 
is  presumed  to  be  "  rich,"  and  to  be  presumed  "  rich,"  is  to  be  universally  respected. 

Working  the  wires  thus,  he  had  been  elected  a  member  of  Parliament,  and  re- 
mained so  until  a  fitting  opportunity  arrived,  when  he  resigned  his  seat  in  favor  of 
a  member  of  the  Government,  who,  in  return,  gave  him  a  sinecure  appointment, 
bringing  in  about  £2,000  a  year ;  all  of  which,  and  more  raised  upon  the  strength  of 
it,  he  expended  annually  in  keeping  up  appearances,  in  the  hopes  of  bringing  about 
a  wealthy  match  for  his  daughter. 

Of  Georgina  little  can  be  said,  except  that  she  was  quite  obedient  to  her  father's 
wishes,  though  at  the  same  time  a  little  artful  and  self-willed.  Her  mother  died 
young,  and  therefore  the  male  parental  guidance  had  its  effect  in  moulding  her  to 
his  views. 

Lady  Franklin  was  generous,  kind,  wealthy,  and  middled-aged— without  any  fam- 
ily, and  therefore  her  half-brother  had  induced  her  to  take  off  his  hands  the  burden 
of  his  ward.  Clara  Douglas  was  an  orphan  of  his  cousin  ;  her  mother  died  young, 
and  her  father  at  his  death  left  her  to  the  care  of  Sir  John  as  her  guardian,  but  hav- 
ing no  wealth,  that  was  all  he  did  leave  him,  and  therefore  to  a  man  of  Sir  John's 
temperament  it  was  by  no  means  an  agreeable  bequest.  It  was  not  long,  however, 
before  he  found  a  way  to  transfer  the  charge  to  Lady  Franklin. 

Alfred  Evelyn  was  left  fatherless  when  a  hoy  and  his  mother  sacrificed  everything 
she  could  to  give  him  education.  From  school  he  proceeded  to  college,  where  he 
became  a  "  sizar."* 

*  "  Sizar  "  is  a  term  used  in  the  University  of  Cambridge,  in  England,  to  denote  a 
body  of  students,  next  below  the  pensioners,  who  eat  at  the  public  table  free  of 
expense,  after  the  fellows  of  the  college  have  taken  their  meals.  In  former  times 
they  had  to  wait  at  table  during  the  meal  hours,  but  this  custom  has  been  done 


MONET.  y 

One  day,  a  young  lord  struck  liira,  he  returned  the  insult  by  horsewhipping  his 
assailant  The  then  great  difference  between  rich  and  poor  was  too  strong  for  the 
affair  to  be  passed  over,  so  poor  Evelyn  was  expelled  the  college  and  all  his  ambi- 
tious hopes  blasted.  Coming  to  London,  lie  toiled  and  toiled  to  the  best  of  his 
ability  to  earn  a  scanty  subsistence  for  himself  and  mother,  and  so  long  as  she  lived 
he  labored  strenuously  and  successfully,  but  with  her  death,  ambition  seemed  to 
expire  also.  As  a  last  resource,  he  consented  to  become  the  ill-paid  secretary  and 
hanger-on  to  his  cousin,  Sir  John  Vesey  ;  but  there  was  a  magnet  in  the  house  which 
attracted  him ;  he  loved  Clara  Douglas,  and  to  be  near  that  loadstone  he  sank  his 
pride. 

He  prepared  Sir  John's  speeches,  wrote  his  pamphlets,  made  up  his  calculations, 
composed  epitaphs,  condensed  the  debates  in  Parliament,  and  even  executed  various 
orders  for  the  ladies,  in  bringing  home  dresses,  novels,  music,  securing  boxes  at  the 
opera,  etc., — all  done  probably  upon  a  salary  less  than  was  paid  to  Sir  John's  coach- 
man. Such,  then,  were  the  constituent  elements  of  the  Baronet's  household  at  the 
opening  of  the  play. 

Sir  John  has  just  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Graves,  an  eccentric,  but  well-mean- 
ing middle-aged  gentleman,  who  never  ceases  to  express,  with  a  melancholy  air,  the 
loss  he  experieuced  by  the  death  of  his  late  wife;  whom  he  invariably  terms,  with 
uplifted  eyes,  his  "  Sainted  Maria,"  though  very  probably,  if  the  truth  were  known, 
she  had  led  him  anything  but  a  happy  life,  and  her  departure  from  this  world  was 
more  of  a  blessing  than  a  misfortune  ;  at  least,  so  many  persons  said,  and  more 
believed. 

Mr.  Graves  informs  Sir  John  that  a  Mr.  Mordaunt,  to  whom  Georgina  is  the  near- 
est relation,  is  dead  ;  that,  having  been  appointed  executor,  and  having  since  his 
■wife's  death  lived  only  in  apartments,  he  proposes  to  read  the  will  that  day  at  Sir 
John's  house,  and  will  come  with  Mr.  Sharp,  the  lawyer,  for  that  purpose. 

This  is  great  news  to  Sir  John — Mr.  Mordaunt  was  reputed  to  be  worth  half  a 
million  sterling  ;  Georgina  is  the  nearest  relation— there  could  surely  be  nothing 
therefore  to  prevent  her  coming  in  for  the  bulk  of  his  fortune. 

Lady  Franklin  and  Clara  arrive ;  to  the  surprise  of  the  worldly-minded  Sir  John, 
his  half  sister  is  not  in  mourning,  but  poor  Clara  is,  explaining  in  the  genuine  feel- 
ing of  her  nature,  that  although  only  a  third  cousin  of  the  deceased,  he  had  once 
assisted  her  father,  and  the  quiet  mourning  robes  she  had  obtained  were  all  the 
respect  and  gratitude  she  could  show. 

There  are  other  distant  relatives  interested  in  the  will ;  Mr.  Stout,  a  political 
economist,  Lord  Glossmore,  a  sort  of  butterfly  nobleman :  and  Sir  Frederick  Blount, 
a  foppish  boronet,  who,  as  Lady  Franklin  facetiously  observes,  "  objects  to  the  letter 
r  as  being  too  wough  and  therefore  droops  its  acquaintance." 

Alfred  Evelyn,  in  the  meantime,  has  arrived,  and  sits  at  the  table  absorbed  in 
reading ;  so,  when  the  conversation  flags,  a  general  attack  is  made  upon  him  to 
know  if  he  has  executed  various  commissions,  and  what  has  delayed  him.  He 
takes  the  opportunity  to  explain  to  Sir  John,  that  his  prolonged  absence  has  been 
occasioned  by  his  having  gone  to  'visit  a  poor  woman  who  was  his  nurse,  and  his 
mother's  last  friend  ;  that  she  is  very  sick,  nay,  dying,  that  she  owes  six  months 
rent,  and  he  appeals  to  Sir  John  for  assistance.  It  is  refused ;  but  Georgina 
overhears  it,  and  her  first  impulse  is  to  assist  him,  but  then  she  might  not  have  the 
fortune,  her  allowance  is  very  little,  and  she  must  purchase  a  pair  of  earrings  she 
has  seen  ;  she,  however,  inquires  the  address  of  the  nurse.  Upon  this  point  the  play 
hinges.  Evelyn  is  misled  by  her  unsolicited  generosity,  and  gives  it,  and  as  Georgina 
reads  it  aloud,  Clara  silently  takes  a  note  of  it,  places  all  her  little  money  in  an 
envelope — but  how  to  direct  it  ?  Evelyn  would  know  her  handwriting,  and  that 
must  not  be,  so  she  appeals  to  Lady  Franklin,  who  promises  that  he  shall  not  know 

away  with  some  years.  The  term  so  applied  to  them  w;is  probably  derived  from 
this  ancient  occupation,  as  the  tood  they  had  to  supply  when  so  engaged  was  called 
"  size."  It  may  well  be  imagined  how  naturally  a  spirit  like  Evelyn's  recoiled  at 
the  position.      __  . — 


10  MONEY. 

it,  that  her  ward  shall  direct  it,  and  she  will  herself  furnish  the  money,  as  it  is  more 
than  Clara  can  spare. 

Sir  Frederick  Blount  arrives,  and  in  his  stupid,  foppish  way,  addresses  many  very 
ridiculous  observations  to  Clara,  which  produces  some  excellent  by-play  and  sarcas- 
tic remarks  from  Evelyn,  who,  though  apparently  sitting  at  the  table  reading,  is 
watching  with  a  keen  and  jealous  eye  every  movement  of  the  idol  of  his  affections- 
Sir  Frederick  being  called  away,  they  are  left  alone,  and  in  the  most  exquisite  And 
perfect  language,  he  tells  the  story  of  his  love.  But  what  is  his  horror  and  dismay 
to  meet  a  calm,  yet  firm,  refusal!  Clara  sees  that,  poor  as  they  are,  it  would  only 
be  a  marriage  of  privation  and  of  penury — a  life  of  days  that  dread  the  morrow — her 
love  is  his— she  can  submit  to  suffer  alone,  but  bring  him  into  it  also,  she  cannot. 

Mr.  Graves  and  Mr.  Sharp  the  lawyer  arrive,  and  the  reading  of  the  will  com- 
mences. Much  disappointment,  but  more  amusement,  is  created  by  the  peculiarity 
and  smallness  of  the  bequests  ;  the  largest  being  one  of  £10,000  to  Georgina  Vesey. 

"  What  can  the  old  fool  have  done  with  his  money  ?"  exclaims  Sir  John,  losing 
all  control.  The  climax  soon  comes  ;  the  deceased  bequeaths  the  entire  residue  of 
his  immense  fortune  to  the  only  relative  who  never  fawned  upon  him,  and  who, 
having  known  privation,  may  the  better  employ  wealth — Alfred  Evelyn  !  Congrat- 
ulations on  every  side  are  unbounded,  but  the  voice  of  her  he  loves  is  silent. 

Evelyn  is  speedily  installed  in  the  first  style  of  position  ;  his  patronage  is  sought 
by  every  one  ;  tradesmen,  electors,  artists,  and  every  rank  of  persons — but  this 
does  not  prevent  his  dispensing  charity  with  a  liberal  hand,  for  which  he  secures  the 
services  of  Mr.  Sharp. 

To  Graves  he  tells  the  story  of  his  life  and  love,  and  further,  that  in  the  letter 
which  the  lawyer  gave  him  after  the  readiug  of  the  will,  there  was  a  request  from 
Mr.  Mordaunt — but  not  imposing  any  condition — asking  as  a  favor,  if  he  had  formed 
no  other  attachment,  to  choose  as  his  wife,  either  Georgina  or  Clara,  who  was  the 
daughter  of  a  dear  friend  of  the  deceased.  He  still  loves  Clara,  but  her  rejection 
overcomes  him  ;  besides,  he  has  obtained  the  letter,  written  in  a  disguised  hand, 
sending  money  to,  and  saving  his  nurse.  His  heart  yearns  to  believe  that  it  was 
Clara's  doing,  but  he  cannot  conceive  how  she  should  know  the  address,  besides  the 
amount  was  too  much  for  her  to  send.  He  also  tells  Graves,  that  determined  to  be 
revenged  upon  Clara  for  refusing  him,  he  has  bribed  Sharp,  the  lawyer,  to  say  that 
the  letter  he  gave  him  contained  a  codicil  to  the  will,  bequeathing  Clara  £20,000 ;  so 
that  she  will  be  no  longer  a  dependent,  and  that  she  will  owe  her  release  from 
almost  beggary  and  insult,  unknowingly,  to  the  poor  scholar  whom  she  had  rejected. 
With  this  joyous  and  noble  feeling  he  determines  to  visit  Lady  Franklin,  and  see 
if  he  can  possibly  ascertain  by  whom  the  money  was  sent  to  his  nurse. 

Consequent  upon  her  unlooked-for  wealth,  Clara  is  now  admired  by  all,  even  by 
Sir  Frederick.  Lady  Franklin  always  assures  her  she  believes  Evelyn  still  loves  her, 
and  begs  permission  to  tell  him  who  sent  the  money  to  the  nurse,  otherwise  he 
might  imagine  it  came  from  Georgina.  Sir  John  Vesey  happens  to  overhear  this 
remark,  and  determines  to  improve  upon  it,  to  secure  Evelyn  for  his  daughter. 
Clara  makes  Lady  Franklin  promise  never  to  reveal  the  secret — most  reluetantly 
she  obeys. 

Sir  John  questions  his  daughter  ;  she  had  taken  down  the  address,  intending  to, 
but  did  not,  send  the  money.  That  is  quite  enough  ground  for  Sir  John  to  work 
upon. 

A  new  character  now  comes  upon  the  scene,  Captain  Dudley  Smooth,  but  who,  in 
consequence  of  his  fashionable  manners  and  abilities,  unusual  success  at  the  gaming 
table,  and  skill  as  a  duellist,  had  acquired  the  name  of  "  Deadly  "  Smooth,  and  he 
is  of  course  soon  one  of  the  friends  of  the  wealthy  Evelyn. 

Sir  Frederick  Blount  also  seeks  Evelyn's  aid  to  promote  his  suit  with  Clara,  tell- 
ing him  that  he  finds  Georgina  had  a  prior  attachment,  which  prior  attachment  was 
no  other  than  Evelyn  himself,  and  therefore  he  must  give  her  up  and  try  his  luck 
with  Clara.  Evejyn  agrees  to  help  him,  and  urges  his  merits  in  a  bantering  tone. 
Observing  Sir  Frederick's  attentions,  Georgina  determines  to  flirt  with  Evelyn,  and 


MONEY.  11 

Sir  John  seizes  the  opportunity  to  introduce  to  his  notice  a  portfolio  of  her  draw- 
ings :  turning  them  over  one  after  another  until  up  cornea  a  portrait  of — Alfred 
Evelyn  ! 

lie  is  astonished  and  confused.  Can  she  really  love  him  ?  A  thought  strikes 
him— carelessly  he  asks  her  if  she  has  yet  purchased  a  guitar  she  spoke  of  some 
months  since.  Now  is  the  time  for  the  master  stroke,  so  taking  him  aside,  Sir  John 
hints  that  she  had  applied  the  money  in  charity;  that  she  did  not  wish  it  known, 
and  had  employed  some  one  else  to  direct  the  letter.  The  blow  is  well  stuuck,  the 
shaft  strikes  home  ;  such  benevolence,  and  such  love  as  to  draw  his  portrait ;  Clara 
had  refused  him,  how  could  he  do  otherwise  than  offer  to  Georgiua  I  He  frankly 
tells  her  of  his  love  for  another,  deep  and  true,  but  vain;  that  he  cannot  give  her 
a  first  love,  but  he  does  offer  her  esteem,  gratitude,  hand  and  fortune. 

It  is  accepted.  Poor  Clara  overhears  all,  and  sinks  on  her  chair  fainting;  he 
rushes  to  her  side,  and  she  rallies  sufficiently  to  exclaim,  "  With  my  whole  heart  I 
say  it — be  happy — Alfred  Evelyn  1" 

The  time  for  the  wedding  is  somewhat  delayed,  much  to  Sir  John's  annoyance, 
and  Georgina  complains  that  Evelyn's  visits  are  not  so  frequent,  nor  his  manners  so 
cheerful  as  they  used  to  be — indeed,  her  former  admirer,  Sir  Frederick,  was  far 
more  attentive  and  amusing.  Sir  John  does  not  half  like  the  way  Evelyn  is  going 
on.  Fine  houses  in  London,  and  in  the  country  balls,  banquets,  expensive  pic- 
tures, horses,  liberal  charities,  everything  tending  to  diminish  rapidly  the  largest 
fortune.  In  addition  to  which,  it  is  reported,  he  has  taken  to  gambling,  and  is 
nearly  always  in  company  with  Captain  Deadly  Smooth,  against  whose  arts,  no 
young  man  of  fortune  had  been  known  to  stand  long. 

Sir  John  determines  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  bring  about  an  early  settle- 
ment, and  to  further  this,  he  thinks  it  best  to  get  Clara  away.  He  speaks  to  her 
upon  the  subject,  and  she  consents  to  leave  England  rather  than  cloud  his  daugh- 
ter's hopes,  and  to  that  effect  promises  to  write  a  letter.  As  she  is  finishing  it, 
Evelyn  calls  to  see  Georgina,  who  is  out,  and,  as  they  are  alone,  Clara  tells  him  of 
her  intended  departure. 

In  a  scene  of  the  most  choice  and  beautiful  language,  replete  with  exquisite 
pathos,  she  breathes  her  thanks  for  past  kindness,  and  now,  that  he  is  betrothed  to 
another,  her  love — as  a  sister — dictates  to  her  to  remonstrate  with  him  upon  his 
parade,  and  luxuries,  and  follies.  But  he  tells  her  that  this  casting  aside  of  his 
high  qualities,  this  dalliance  with  a  loftier  fate,  was  her  own  work.  It  is  impossi- 
ble adequately  to  describe  the  pure  and  beautiful  language  of  this  scene— the 
skillful  mingling  of  love  and  reproaches — and  the  bitter  parting — as  friends! 

As  he  is  recovering  from  the  blow,  Graves  meets  him,  and  tells  him  that  he  knows 
for  a  fact,  Sir  Frederick  has  proposed  to  Clara  and  been  refused;  nay,  more,  that 
Georgina  is  not  in  love  with  him,  but  only  with  his  fortune  ;  and  that  she  plays 
affection  with  him  in  the  afternoon,  after  she  has  practiced  with  Sir  Frederick  in 
the  morning.  And  further,  that  Sir  John  is  vastly  alarmed  at  his  gambling  pro- 
pensities, and  his  connection  with  Captain  Smooth,  so  much  so,  that  he  intends 
visiting  the  club  that  evening  to  watch  him. 

A  light  breaks  upon  Evelyn,  and  he  assures  Graves  that  if  these  stories  are  true, 
the  duper  shall  be  duped,  and  he  will  extricate  himself;  to  this  end,  he  determines 
to  shape  his  plans. 

One  of  the  liveliest  scenes  in  the  play  here  follows  between  Lady  Franklin,  who 
is  really  in  love  with  the  solemn  and  melancholy  Graves.  She  so  talks  and  works 
upon  his  feelings,  that  he  gradually  relaxes  his  staid  demeanor,  and  actually  joins 
her  in  a  dance,  her  own  sweet,  merry  voice  supplying  the  music.  In  the  midst  of 
their  meriment  they  are  interrupted  and  confused  by  the  sudden  entrance  of  Sir 
John,  Blount  and  Georgina.  It  is  the  finest  piece  of  comedy  ever  put  upon  the 
stage,  and  affords  scope  for  excellent  acting. 

We  are  now  introduced  to  the  club.  Evelyn  arrives,  and  requests  Smooth  to  play 
with  him,  and  be  loses  game  after  game.  Watching  his  opportunity,  he  takes  the 
Captain  aside  and  acquaints  him  with  a  plot  he  has  formed  to  test  the  truth  of  his 


12  MuNKY. 

suspicions  of  the  intentions  of  Georgina  and  her  father — into  this  scheme,  Smooth 
readily  enters,  and  returning  to  the  table,  they  renew  their  play.  S;r  John  arrives, 
and  watches  with  the  most  intense  excitement,  game  after  game  lost,  with  con- 
stantly increasing  stakes.  In  apparent  agony,  Evelyn  rises  from  the  table,  declar- 
ing that  the  work  is  ruinous,  and  he  will  play  no  more.  All  the  members  crowd 
round  the  Captain  to  ascertain  the  extent  of  his  winnings  ;  the  only  answer  they 
get  is  an  offer  to  purchase  from  one  of  them  a  furnished  house  which  he  has  to  sell 
for  j£15,000,  which,  from  his  manner,  he  leads  them  to  believe,  is  a  mere  trifle.  They 
catch  the  bait,  and  at  once  imagine  he  must  have  won  double  and  treble  that  sum. 
Sir  John's  consternation  is  fearful,  but  ttfe  more  so  when  he  sees  Evelyn,  apparently 
under  the  influence  of  too  much  wine,  take  hold  of  Smooth's  arm,  and  declare  they 
must  now  make  a  night  of  it. 

In  the  morning,  Glossmore  and  Sir  Frederick  call  upon  Evelyn  to  settle  some 
small  accounts  with  him.  He  still  carries  on  the  deception,  and  not  only  excuses 
paying  them,  but  works  a  trick  between  them,  by  which  he  secures  a  further  check 
from  each,  and  makes  a  present  to  one  of  a  horse  he  buys  on  credit  from  the  other. 
He  goes  further  than  this  ;  not  only  does  he  borrow  £500  from  Sir  John,  but  he  also 
tells  him  that  he  has  sold  out  of  the  funds  sufficient  money  to  pay  the  balance  for 
the  purchase  of  an  estate  ;  that  the  mouey  is  laying  at  his  bankers,  but  he  cannot 
touch  it  for  any  other  purpose,  or  the  estate  will  be  lost,  and  the  deposit  money  he 
has  paid  forefeited.  He  alludes,  therefore,  to  Georgina's  j£10,000  legacy,  and  man- 
aging cleverly  to  get  Sir  John  out  of  the  way,  he  speaks  to  her  upon  the  subject. 
He  tells  her  of  his  position,  that  they  may  probably  have  to  retrench  and  live  in  the 
country,  and  suggests  that  she  should  lend  him  the  jE10,000  for  a  few  weeks  to  meet 
some  pressing  claims  ;  without  confidence  there  can  be  no  joy  in  wedlock.  She 
hesitates,  then  promises  he  shall  hear  from  her. 

Smooth,  Glossmore  and  others  now  arrive,  and,  still  carrying  on  the  deception,  he 
appears  most  servile  and  cringing  to  the  Captain.  In  a  well  constructed  scene,  he 
calls  the  attention  of  all  to  his  unexpected  accession  to  wealth  twelve  months  since, 
and  claims  their  good  opinion  for  the  way  in  which  he  has  acted — they^.11  outwardly 
approve,  but  inwardly  they  earnestly  wish  they  had  back  their  various  loans.  Their 
nervous  excitement  is  increased  by  news  being  brought  that  the  bankers  with 
whom  he  banked  have  suspended  payment,  and  they  very  much  doubt  his  assur- 
ance that  he  had  not  much  money  there.  This  is  followed  by  several  tradesmen 
applying  for  their  bills,  and  then  by  the  entry  of  a  sheriff's  officer  to  serve  him  with 
a  summons.  All  this  is  too  overpowering — Sir  John  vehemently  demands  his  j£500, 
and  the  others  join  chorus.  Graves  is  overcome ;  he  tells  Evelyn  to  go  into  dinner, 
and  he  will  settle  with  the  officer.  Delighted  at  this  generosity,  Lady  Franklin 
ingenuously  exclaims,  "I  love  you  for  that !"  and  poor  Graves  loses  his  usual  solemn- 
ity in  the  pleasure  he  experiences  at  this  avowal. 

Again  Evelyn  appeals  to  Georgina  ;  he  shall  hear  to-morrow  ;  but  Sir  John  can 
restrain  himself  no  longer,  and  he  commands  her,  as  his  "  poor,  injured,  innocent 
child,"  to  take  the  arm  of  Sir  Frederick  Blount.  The  doors  are  thrown  open,  and 
Evelyn  invites  all  his  friends  to  the  dinner  prepared  for  them  ;  but  in  doing  so,  he 
appeals  to  them,  in  mockery,  to  lend  him  jEIO  for  his  poor  old  nurse.  This  is  too 
much,  and  he  then  bitterly  reminds  them  that  in  the  morning  they  lent  him  hun- 
dreds for  pleasure,  but  now  they  refuse  him  a  trifle  for  charity,  and  he  commands 
them  to  go.  Smooth  alone  remains,  and  being  joined  by  Graves,  the  three  repair 
to  the  table  "  to  fill  a  bumper  to  the  brave  hearts  that  never  desert  us  !" 

Events  now  approach  a  climax.  Graves  and  Lady  Franklin  have  become  more 
intimate  and  confidential.  He  tells  her  he  is  certain  that  Evelyn  still  loves  Clara, 
but  doubts  if  she  cares  tor  him.  Lady  Franklin,  on  the  other  hand,  assures  him 
that  ever  since  she  has  heard  of  Evelyn's  distress,  she  has  been  breaking  her  heart 
for  him. 

Clara  arrives,  having  been  to  her  bankers,  for  what  purpose  she  declines  to  say  ; 
but  she  says  she  has  heard  that  Jtl  0,000  would  relieve  Evelyn,  and  probably  Georgina 
would  lend  him  the  amount.    Graves  much  doubts  such  generosity  in  a  woman,  but 


MONET.  13 

he  hints  that  he  knew  of  greater  generosity  in  a  man,  who,  rejected  in  poverty,  by 
one  as  poor  as  himself,  when  he  became  rich,  through  a  well  invented  codicil,  had 
made  the  worn  in  rich.  A  light  dawns  upon  Clara,  she  will  see  Evelyn  and  know  the 
truth. 

Evelyn's  scheme  has  thus  far  succeeded.  Upon  Graves  offering  to  aid  him  all  he 
c  in,  he  is  so  pleased  that  he  reveals  his  true  position,  and  assures  him  that  scarcely 
a  month's  income  of  his  large  fortune  has  been  touched  ;  it  was  merely  a  ruse  to 
see  whether  a  woman's  love  was  given  to  "  man  "  or  "  money."  If  Georgina  should 
prove  by  her  answer  her  confidence  and  generosity,  then,  though  his  heart  should 
break,  lie  would  nv.irry  her  ;  on  the  other  hand,  should  she  decline,  there  would 
be  hope  for  explanations  with  Clara. 

A  letter  is  brought  in,  and  upon  opening  it,  he  finds  a  notice  that  j£10,000  has 
been  paid  into  the  bank  to  his  account.  This  decides  the  matter— the  die  is  cast, 
and  Georgina  wins.  Lady  Franklin  arrives  with  Clara,  and  compelling  Graves  to 
withdraw,  leaves  her  and  Evelyn  together. 

In  brilliant  and  telling  language,  the  true  and  noble  sentiments  of  Clara  are 
revealed  ;  explanation  upon  explanation  follows,  and  the  ardent  love  of  both  is 
powerfully  and  touchingly  portrayed  ;  but  it  is  too  late  !  Evelyn,  still  believing 
that  it  is  Georgina  who  has  assisted  him,  asserts,  that  by  every  tie  of  faith,  grati- 
tude, loyalty  and  love,  he  is  bound  to  another!  Sir  John  hurries  in,  stating  that 
he  has  an  offer  from  Georgina  to  advance  the  money,  and  is  astounded  when  Evelyn 
tells  him  the  amount  has  been  already  paid  into  his  bankers.  Then  Sharp  arrives 
with  the  news  that  Evelyn  has  been  elected  a  Member  of  Parliament,  and  he  also 
informs  Sir  John  that  the  loss  by  the  failure  of  the  bank  was  only  jE'200  or  so,  and 
that  Evelyn  has  always  been  living  within  his  income.  This  is  indeed  good  news, 
and  Sir  John  is  in  ecstacies,  when  his  daughter  and  Sir  Frederick  arrive;  but  before 
he  can  speak,  Evelyn  addresses  her,  desiring  to  know  if  she  has  assisted  and 
trusted  him  purely  and  sincerely.  She  cannot  comprehend  him,  and  tells  him,  that 
following  the  principles  she  once  heard  uttered,  "  what  is  money  without  happi- 
ness ?"  she  had'that  morning,  promised  her  hand  to  Sir  Frederick  Blount !  Utterly 
astounded,  Evelyn  produces  the  letter — Lady  Franklin  reads  it — the  money  had 
been  paid  in  by  "  a  friend,  to  Alfred  Evelyn  ;"  the  same  name  used  in  sending  the 
money  to  the  old  nurse,  and  she  at  once  proclaims  both  as  Clara's  acts.  In  an 
ecstacy  of  delight,  Evelyn  offers  love  and  fortune  ;  this  time  he  is  not  rejected.  The 
solemn  Graves  forgets  his  "  sainted  Maria,"  and  joins  hands  with  Lady  Franklin, 
and  all  but  Sir  John  realize  the  combination  of  happiness  and — Money  ! 


REMARKS. 


In  introducing  the  third,  in  the  new  series  of  Bulwer's  plays,  it  is  a  labor  of  love. 
The  recollections  of  its  excellent  production,  and  of  witnessing  it  afterwards  upon 
almost  every  occasion  of  its  reproduction  in  London,  bring  to  mind  old  associ- 
ations that  are  agreeable,  yet  saddening;  for  many  of  those  who  filled  the  puts, 
and  whose  company  was  ever  welcome,  both  on  and  off  the  stage,  are  now  no  more. 

Of  all  Bulwer's  plays,  this  is,  undoubtedly  the  best— it  is  more  than  fine— it  is  a 
splendid  comedy,  so  telling,  and  so  true  to  life  in  all  the  principles,  and  in  the  delin- 
eation of  characters  with  which  a  wayfarer  through  the  worid  constantly  meets.  It 
makes  such  a  powerful  appeal,  in  presenting  the  spectacle  of  a  man  endowed  with 
intellect,  education,  and  gentlemanly  bearing,  occupying  a  subordinate  position,  but 
expected  to  be  of  the  greatest  usefulness  upon  all  occasions,  at  the  same  time  receiv- 
ing less  pay  than  the  tall  footman  of  the  establishment,  and  considerable  fewer 
perquisites  than  the  favorite  butler  ;  a  position  from  which  he  is  only  released  by  a 
most  unexpected  stroke  of  fortune. 

The  conception  and  the  execution  of  the  plot  are,  in  my  opinion,  perfect.    All  the 


W  MONEr. 

observations  touching  upon  falsity,  pride,  deceptive  appearances,  worldly  schem- 
ing-, pure  affection,  hypocrisy,  are  painted  and  well  drawn,  so  admirably  depictured, 
that  they  cannot  fail  to  tell. 

Upon  reference  to  the  remarks  and  dates  in  the  previous  plays,  it  will  be  found 
that  only  about  eleven  months  elapsed  between  the  production  of  the  Lady  of  Lyons 
and  Richelieu,  whereas,  between  that  play  and  this,  nearly  double  that  period 
passed  away,  and  certain  it  is,  that  the  author  made  good  use  of  it,  by  producing  a 
work,  both  in  plot  and  language,  very  far  surpassing  all  his  previous  efforts,  and 
giving  to  the  world  one  of  the  finest  comedies,  if  not  the  finest,  in  the  English  1  m- 
gunge. 

He  had  again  the  good  luck  to  be  supported  by  the  highest  professional  material 
•available  tor  carrying  out  his  ideas,  and  it  can  be  stated,  from  personal  knowledge 
of  all  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  engaged  in  the  play,  that  the  characters  were  well 
suited  to  the  actors,  and  the  actors  to  the  characters  ;  consequently,  nothing  could 
be  more  felicitous  or  so  likely  to  ensure  success,  as  the  result  proved.  Again  he  had 
for  his  hero,  Alfred  Evelyn,  Mr.  Macready,  the  hero  of  his  previous  p'ays,  ar>d  for 
his  heroine,  Clara  Douglas,  Miss  Helen  Faucit,  who  had  contributed  so  largely  to 
previous  successes. 

As  was  noticed  in  the  remarks  to  the  Lady  of  Lyons  and  Kichelieu,  those  plays 
had  the  benefit  of  being  supported  by  actors,  all  of  whom  afterwards  attained  lead- 
ing positions  in  the  profession  ;  so  was  it  with  this  play.  On  its  first  production 
there  was  a  concentration  of  talent,  blooming,  half  blooming,  and  about  to  bloom, 
that  ensured  a  proper  rendering  of  a  meritorious  play. 

It  will  be  observed,  that  the  scene  of  triumph  was  changed  from  the  Theatre 
Royal,  G'ovent  Garden,  to  the  Theatre  Royal,  Haymarket,  London;  and  that  of  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  had  played  in  the  author's  previous  productions^  only 
four  bad  parts  in  this,  viz  :  Miss  H.  Faucit,  Mr.  Macready,  Mr.  F.  Vining,  and 
Mr.  Howe.  But  the  others  were  a  little  host.  Mr.  Walter  Lacy,  one  of  the  finest, 
and  most  gentlemanly  actors  on  the  stage  ;  Mr.  B.  Webster,  a.  great  actor,  and  for 
many  years  lessee  of  the  Haymarket,  Adelphi,  and  Princess'  Theatres,  in  London, 
where  he  is  still  playing,  at  an  advanced  age,  and  who  is  celebrated  for  having 
brought  out,  at  the  Adelphi  lheatre,  in  conjunction  with  Madame  Celeste,  a  very 
large  number  of  first  class  dramas—"  The  Hop  Pickers," — "  The  Harvest  Home," 
— "  The  Green  Bushes,"  and  farces  innumerable.  Mr.  Wrench  and  Mr.  Oxberry, 
low  comedians  of  the  first  class ;  the  latter,  a  gentleman  of  much  intellect  and  edu- 
cation, as  his  "  Dramatic  Budget  "  will  testify. 

Mr.  O.  Smith,  who  for  many  years  played  the  "  villain  "  in  all  domestic  dramas, 
with  unqualified  success,  so  good  was  his  make  up,  and  so  well  adapted  for  such 
character,  his  cool,  deep  voice.  Mrs.  Glover,  a  most  amiable  and  accomplished  ladyt 
who  was  for  many  years  a  stock  member  of  the  Haymarket  Company,  and  as 
famous  in  London,  for  her  admirable  delineation  of  ladies  of  middle  and  more 
advanced  age,  as  Mrs.  Wheately  was  in  this  country.  Lastly,  Miss  P.  Horton,  who 
was  afterwards,  for  many  years  without  a  rival,  as  the  chief  burlesque  and  extrava- 
ganza actress  in  London.  She  married  Mr.  T.  G  Reed,  a  celebrated  musical  direc- 
tor and  composer,  and  together  they  carried  on  for  many  years  a  beautiful  little 
theatre  in  Regent  street,  London,  where  they  produced  a  number  of  musical 
pieces  of  the  highest  class;  it  was  like  a  handsome  drawing-room,  and  was  known 
as  "  The  Gallery  of  Illustration." 

Poor  Mrs.  Glover  met  with  a  melancholy  end.  Upon  the  occasion  of  her  farewell 
benefit  in  London,  July  12th,  1850,  she  was  so  overcome  by  the  reception  given  to 
her,  and  the  emotions  at  quitting  forever  the  scene  of  so  many  triumphs,  and  of 
long  standing  associations— for  the  Haymarket  Company  was  termed  "  the  happy 
family  "—season  after  season  for  many  years  rarely  witnessing  any  change  amongst 
the  members — that  she  sudden  y  became  speechless,  and  three  days  afterwards,  July 
15th,  1850,  she  expired. 

Of  Mr.  O.  Smith's  popularity  and  fame,  for  his  deep  voice  and  demoniacal  laugh,  1 
may  mention  a  little  incident.     Some  years  since,  I  produced  in  London  an  extrav- 


MONKY.  15 

aganza  called  "  The  Three  Princes,"  and  1  am  happy  to  say  it  met  with  the  greatest 
possible  success.  I  introduced  in  it  an  allusion  to  his  voice.  The  evil  genius  of  the 
piece  threatens  utter  annihilation  to  one  of  the  princes,  to  which  the  reply  came  : 

"  Destroy  me,  kin  and  kith  ! 
You  speak  exactly  like  the  Adelphi  Smith  !" 

and  so  well  and  so  widely  known  was  the  actor  and  his  voice,  that  during  a  run  of 
nearly  two  hundred  nights,  the  allusion  and  imitation  never  once  failed  to  bring 
forth  a  hearty  laugh. 

With  reference  to  the  character  of  Sir  John  Vesey,  it  is  interesting  to  observe 
that  "  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction."  He  says,  in  the  first  scene,  "  If  you  have  no 
merit  or  money  of  your  own,  you  must  trade  on  the  merits  and  money  of  other 
people.''    In  a  recent  great  law  case  in  England,  "  The  Ticliborne  Case,''  the  trial 

of  which  lasted  nearly  twelve  months,  an  old  pocket  book  was  produced  in  evidei , 

in  which  the  claimant  to  the  title  and  estates  (afterwards,  sentenced  to  fourteen 
years  imprisonment  for  perjury  and  forgery)  had  written  "some  people  has  plenty 
of  money  and  no  brains,  and  some  people  has  plenty  of  brains  and  no  money," 
therefore,  he  held  it  was  the  duty  of  the  latter  to  prey  upon  the  former.  He  was 
evidently  a  vulgar  disciple  of  the  Sir  John  Vesey  school,  of  which  there  are  speci- 
mens to  be  met  with  everywhere. 

Mr.  Macready  was  followed  iu  the  character  of  Alfred  Evelyn,  by  all  those  who 
had  followed  him  in  the  Lady  of  Lyons  ;  Charles  Kean,  Phelps,  Anderson,  Creswick, 
and  a  host  of  others  previously  mentioned,  who  were  as  successful  in  this  as  in  the 
previous  plays. 

As  before  stated,  Money  was  first  produced  in  America  at  the  Old  Park  Theatre, 
New  York,  Feb.  1st,  1841,  with  an  excellent  cast. 

Mr.  llield,  who  played  the  hero,  was  a  gentlemanly  and  intellectual  actor;  he 
made  a  great  hit,  and  for  many  years  afterwards  repeated  the  character  with  con- 
tinued success. 

Mr.  Chippendale  as  Sir  John  Vesey,  and  Mrs.  Chippendale  as  Georgina,  were  also 
most  successful,  whilst  Mrs.  Maeder  as  Clara  Douglas,  and  Mrs.  Vernon  as  the  warm 
hearted  Lady  Franklin,  added  greatly  to  the  triumph  of  the  play. 

It  was  afterwards  produced  at  the  Chatham  Theatre,  situated  on  Chatham 
street  between  Roosevelt  and  James  streets,  and  at  the  Broadway,  which  was  situ- 
ated on  Broadway  between  Pearl  street  and  Anthony  (now  Worth)  street,  with  the 
following  cast  : 

Chatham  Theatre,  Broadway  Theatre, 

Sept..  4,  1843.  Nov.  4,  1S47. 

Alfred  Evelyn Mr.  Hiki.d.  Mr.  G.  Vandenhoff. 

Sir  John  Vesey Mr.  Greene.  Mr.  II.  Wallack. 

Lord  G'.ossmore Mr   Booth,  Jr.  Mr.  Fredericks. 

Sir  Frederick  Blount Mr  Field.  Mr.  Lestkh. 

Stout ....Mr.  Collins.  Mr.  E.  Shaw. 

Chaves Mr.  Burton.  Mr.  Vache. 

Captain  Dudley  Smooth Mr.  Stevens.  Mr.  Dawson. 

Clara  Douglas Mrs.  G.Jones.  Miss  F.  Wai 

Lady  Franklin Mrs.  Livers.  Mrs.  Winstani.it. 

Georgina Miss  Kiriiy.  Mrs.  Sf.koeast. 

And  also  on  September  1G,  1857,  at  Burton's  New  Theatre,  when  Mr.  Murdoch 
played  Alfred  Evelyn,  Mr.  Burton,  Graves,  and  Mrs.  W.  11.  Smith,  Lady  Franklin. 

But  perhaps  as  fine  and  almost  as  good  a  representation  of  the  comedy  was  that 
produced  at  "Wallack's  Theatre,  New  York,  Jan.  17,  1874,  with  the  following  excel- 
lent cast : 


16  MONET. 

Alfred  Evelyn . Mr.  Lester  Wallace. 

Sir  John  Vesey Mr.  J.  "W.  Carroll. 

Lord  Glossmore Mr.  J.  W.  Ferguson. 

Sir  Frederick  Blount Mr.  W.  It.  Floyd. 

Benjamin  Stout Mr.  Johs  Brougham. 

Graves Mr.  Harry  Beckett. 

Captain  Dudley  Smooth Mr.  J.  B.  Polk. 

Mr.  Sharp Mr.  G.  F.  Biownb. 

Old  Member Mr.  T.  C.  Mills. 

Clara  Douglas Miss  Jeffreys  Lewis. 

Lady  Franklin Madame  Ponisi. 

Georgina Miss  Dora  Goi.dtfiwaite. 

Having  been  present  upon  innumerable  occasions  of  the  representations  of  this 
play,  and  witnessed  the  performance  of  nearly  all  the  Alfred  Evelyns  on  the  London 
boards,  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  I  never,  as  a  whole,  saw  the  play  better 
mounted  or  acted.  The  Alfred  Evelyn  of  Mr.  Lester  Wallack  will  bear  comparison 
with  any  ;  if  we  could  only  have  the  pleasure  of  making  him  a  few  years  younger  it 
would  enhance  the  beauty  of  the  performance ;  but  one  could  afford  to  put  aside 
that  little  drawback  ;  it  was  fully  compensated  for  by  the  fine  delivery  of  the  text, 
and  the  intellect  and  bearing  of  one  of  nature's  nobleman,  such  as  Alfred  Evelyn 
is  supposed  to  be,  and  the  actor  is. 

Mr.  John  Brougham's  Stout,  Mr.  Harry  Beckett's  Graves,  Mr.  W.  R.  Floyd's  Sir 
Frederick  Blount,  were  all  most  admirably  rendered.  Miss  Jeffreys  Lewis  made  an 
excellent  Clara  Douglas,  and  as  Lady  Franklin,  Madame  Ponisi  well  sustained  her 
reputation,  whilst  Miss  Dora  Goldthwaite  as  Georgina  was  all  that  was  needed. 
Indeed  all  engaged  were  good.  As  I  have  said  in  my  former  remarks,  so  I  say  of 
this  play— not  one  jot  of  brilliancy  and  effect  has  bean  lost  in  transferring  it  to  the 
American  boards.  J-  M-  K- 


MONEY. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — A  drawing-room  in  Sir  John  Vesey's  house ;  folding  doors  c, 
tvhich  open  on  another  drawing-room.  To  the  right  a  table,  with  the 
Morning  Post  newspaper,  books,  etc.  ;  to  the  left,  a  sofa  and  writing  table. 
The  furniture  tasteful  and  eostlg. 

Sir  John  and  Georgina  discovered,  u.  c. 

Sir  John  {reading  a  letter  edged  with  black).  Yes,  he  says  at  two  pre- 
cisely. "  Dear  Sir  John,  as  since  the  death  of  my  sainted  Maria," — 
Hum  ! — that's  his  wife ;  she  made  him  a  martyr,  and  now  lie  makes  her 
a  saint ! 

Geor.  Well,  as  since  her  death  1 — 

Sir  J.  {reading).  "  I  have  been  living  in  chambers,  where  I  cannot  so 
well  invite  ladies,  you  will  allow  me  to  bring  Mr.  Sharp,  the  lawyer,  to 
read  the  will  of  the  late  Mr.  Mordaunt  (to  which  I  am  appointed  execu- 
tor) at  your  house — your  daughter  being  the  nearest  relation.  I  shall 
be  with  you  at  two  precisely. — Henry  Graves." 

Geor.  And  you  really  think  I  shall  be  uncle  Mordaunt's  heiress  ] 
And  that  the  fortune  he  made  in  India  is  half  a  million  1 

Sir  J.  Ay !  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  be  the  richest  heiress  in  Eng- 
land. But  sit  down,  my  dear  Georgy — my  dear  girl.  (Georgixa  sits  r. 
h.  of  table,  Sir  Jjhn  l.  h.)  Upon  this  happy — I  mean  melancholy — occa- 
sion, I  feel  that  I  may  trust  you  with  a  secret.  You  see  this  fine  house 
— our  fine  servants — our  fine  plate — our  fine  dinners  ;  every  one  thiuks 
Sir  John  Vesey  a  rich  man. 

Geor.  And  are  you  not,  papa  1 

Sir  J.  Not  a  bit  of  it — all  humbug,  child — all  humbug,  upon  my 
soul  !  There  are  two  rules  in  life — First,  men  are  not  valued  for  what 
they  are,  but  what  they  seem  to  be.  Seconbly,  if  you  have  no  merit  or 
money  of  your  own.  you  must  trade  on  the  merits  and  money  of  other 
people.  My  father  got  the  title  by  services  in  the  army,  and  died  pen- 
niless. On  the  strength  of  his  services  I  got  a  pension  of  £400  a  year; 
on  the  strength  of  £100  a  year  I  took  credit  for  £800  ;  on  the  strength 
of  £800  a  year  I  married  your  mother  with  £10,000  ;  on  the  Btrength  ol 
£10,000  I  took  credit  for  £40,000,  and  paid  Dicky  Gossip  three  guineas 
a  week  to  go  about  everywhere  calling  me  "  Stingy  Jack  !" 

Geor.  Ha !  ha  !     A  disagreeable  nickname. 

Sir  J.  But  a  valuable  reputation  When  a  man  is  called  stingy,  it  is 
as  much  as  calling  him  rich  ;  and  when  a  man's  called  rich,  why  Ik's  a 
man  universally  respected.  On  the  strength  of  my  respectability  I 
wheedled  a  constituency,  changed  my  politics,  resigned  my  seat  to  a 
minister,  who,  to  a  man  of  such  stake  in  the  country,  could  odor  nothing 


18  MONEY.  [ACT  I. 

less  in  return  than  a  patent  office  of  £2,000  a  year.  That's  the  way  to 
succeed  in  life.     Humbug,  my  dear — all  humbug,  upon  my  soul ! 

Geor.   I  must  say  that  you 

Sir  J.  Know  the  world,  to  be  sure.  Now,  for  your  fortune — as  I 
spend  more  than  my  income,  I  can  have  nothing  to  leave  you;  yet,  even 
without  counting  your  uncle,  you  have  always  passed  for  an  heiress  on 
the  credit  of  your  expectations  from  the  savings  of  "  Stingy  Jack." 
Apropos  of  a  husband;  you  know  we  thought  of  Sir  Frederick  Blount. 

Ge  >r.  Aii,  papa,  he  is  charming. 

Sir  J.  Hem  !  He  was  so,  my  dear,  before  we  knew  your  poor  uncle 
was  dead  ;  but  an  heiress  such  as  you  will  be  should  look  out  for  a  duke. 
Where  the  deuce  is  Evelyn  this  morning  ?  {rises,  puts  back  the  chair,  goes 
to  l.  table,  marks  the  letter  and  puts  it  in  his  pocket.) 

Geor.  I've  not  seen  him,  papa.  What  a  strange  character  he  is — so 
sarcastic;  and  yet  he  can  be  agreeable,  {pats  buck  her  chair  and  then 
goes  u.  i 

Sir  J.  A  humorist — a  cynic  !  One  never  knows  how  to  take  him.  My 
private  secretary — a  poor  cousin,  has  not  got  a  shilling,  and  yet,  hang 
me,  if  he  does  not  keep  us  all  at  a  sort  of  a  distance. 

Geok.  -But  why  do  you  take  him  to  live  with  us,  papa,  since  there's 
no  good  to  be  got  by  it  'i 

Sin  J.  There  you  are  wrong ;  he  has  a  great  deal  of  talent;  prepares 
my  speeches,  writes  my  pamphlets,  looks  up  my  calculations.  Besides, 
he  is  our  cousin — he  has  no  salary  ;  kindness  to  a  poor  relation  always 
tells  well  in  the  world  ;  and  benevolence  is  a  useful  virtue — particularly 
when  you  can  have  it  for  nothing.  With  our  other  cousin,  Clara,  it  was 
different;  her  father  thought  fit  to  leave  me  her  guardian,  though  she 
had  not  a  penny — a  mere  useless  encumbrance  ;  so,  you  see,  I  got  my 
half-sister,  Lady  Franklin,  to  take  her  off  my  hands. 

Geor.  How  much  longer  is  Lady  Franklin's  visit  to  be  ?  (at  table  r., 
takes  up  paper,  reads  until  she  speaks  to  Evelyn.) 

Sir  J.  I  don't  know,  my  dear ;  the  longer  the  better — for  her  hus- 
band left  her  a  good  deal  of  money  at  her  own  disposal.  Ah,  here  she 
comes  ! 

Enter  Lady  Franklin  and  Clara,  c.  r. 

My  dear  sister,  we  were  just  loud  in  your  praises.  But  how's  this — not 
in  mourning  ? 

Lady  F.  Why  should  I  go  in  mourning  for  a  man  I  never  saw  ! 

Sir  J.  Still  there  may  be  a  legacy. 

Lady  F.  Then  there'll  be  less  cause  for  affliction  !  Ha,  ha!  my  dear 
Sir  John,  I'm  one  of  those  who  think  feelings  a  kind  of  property,  and 
never  take  credit  for  them  upon  false  pretences,  (crosses  to  table  l.,  sits.) 

Sir  J.  (aside,  l.).  Very  silly  woman  !  (aloud)  But,  Clara,  I  see  you  are 
more  attentive  to  the  proper  decorum  ;  yet  you  are  very,  very,  very  dis- 
tantly connected  with  the  deceased — a  third  cousin,  I  think  i 

Clara.  Mr.  Mordau"t  once  assisted  my  father,  and  these  poor  robes 
are  all  the  gratitude  I  can  show  him.  (goes  to  l.  table  and  sits.) 

Sir  J.  (aside).  Gratitude  !  humph  !  1  am  afraid  the  minx  has  got  ex- 
pectations. 

Lady  F.  So,  Mr.  Graves  is  the  executor — the  will  is  addressed  to 
him  ?  The  same  Mr.  Graves  who  is  ajways  in  black,  always  lamenting 
his  ill-fortune  and  his  sainted  Maria,  who  led  him  the  life  of  a  dog? 

Sir  J.  The  very  same.  His  liveries  are  black — his  carriage  is  black 
— he  always  rides  a  black  galloway — and  faith,  if  he  ever  marry  again, 
I  think  he  will  show  his  respect  to  the  sainted  Maria  by  marryiug  a 
black  woman. 


ACT  I.] 


19 


Lady  F.  Hi  !  ha  !  we  shall  see.  (aside)  Poor  Graves,  I  always  liked 
him;   he  made  au  excellent  hushand.  {down  c.) 

Enter  Evelun,  c.  l.,  seats  himself  l.  of  r.  table,  and  takes  up  a  book  unob- 
served. 

Sir  J.  What  a  crowd  of  relations  this  will  brings  to  light!  Mr.  Stout, 
the  Political  Economist — Lord  Glossmore 

Lady  F.  Whose  grandfather  kept  a  pawnbroker's  shop,  and  who, 
accordingly,  entertains  the  profoundest  contempt  for  everything  popular, 
parventf,  and  plebeian. 

Sir  J.  Sir  Frederick  Blount 

Lady  F.  Sir  Fwedewick  Blount,  who  objects  to  the  letter  r  as  beiug 
too  wongh,  and  therefore  dwops  its  acquaintance  ;  one  of  the  new  class 
of  prudent  young  gentlemen,  who,  not  having  spirits  and  constitution  for 
the  hearty  excesses  of  their  predecessors,  intrench  themselves  in  the  dig- 
nity of  a  lady-like  languor.  A  man  of  fashion  in  the  last  century  was 
riotous  and  thoughtless — in  this  he  is  tranquil  and  egotistical.  He  never 
does  anything  that  is  silly,  or  says  anything  that  is  wise  1  bag  your 
pardon,  my  dear  :  I  believe  Sir  Frederick  is  an  admirer  of  yours,  pro- 
vided, on  reflection,  he  does  not  see  "what  harm  it  could  do  him"  to 
fall  in  love  with  your  beauty  and  expectations.  Then,  too,  our  poor 
cousin  the  scholar — (L'lau a  touches  Lady  Franklin,  and  points  co  Eve- 
lyn. All  turn  and  look  at  /urn)  Oh,  Mr.  Evelyn,  there  you  are!  (resumes 
her  seat.) 

Sir  J.  {going  up  to  Evelyn,  r.  a).  Evelyn — the  very  person  I  wanted  ; 
where  have  you  been  all  day  ?  Have  you  seen  to  those  papers  ? — have 
vim  wriiten  my  epitaph  on  poor  Mordaunt  ? — Latin,  you  know  1 — have 
you  reported  my  speech  at  Exeter  Hall? — have  you  looked  out  the  de- 
bates on  the  Customs  1 — and — oh,  have  you  mended  up  all  the  old  pens 
in  the  study  ? 

Geor.  (r.  of  r.  table).  And  have  you  brought  me  the  black  floss  silk  1 
— have  you  been  to  Store's  for  my  ring  1 — and,  as  we  cannot  go  out  on 
this  melancholy  occasion,  did  you  call  at  Hookham's  for  the  last  H.  B. 
and  the  Comic  Annual  > 

Lady  F.  {rises  and  goes  to  Evelyn).  And  did  you  see  what  was  really 
the  matter  with  my  bay  horse  '! — did  you  get  me  the  opera-box  1 — did 
you  buy  my  little  Charley  his  peg-top  1 

Evelyn  {always  reading).  Certainly,  Paley  is  right  upon  that  point  ; 
for,  put  the  syllogism  thus — (looking  up)  Ma'am — sir — Miss  Vesey — you 
want  something  of  me  V — Paley  observes,  that  to  assist  even  the  unde- 
serving tends  to  the  better  regulation  of  our  charitable  feelings. — No 
apologies — I  am  quite  at  your  service,  (shuts  the  book  and  comes  forward.) 

Sin  J.  Now  he's  in  one  of  his  humors  ! 

Lady  F.   (down  f..).  You  allow  him  strange  liberties,  Sir  John. 

Eve.  (a).  You  will  be  the  less  surprised  at  that,  madam,  when  I  in- 
form you  that  Sir  John  allows  me  nothing  else.  I  am  now  about  to 
draw  on  his  benevolence. 

Lady  F.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  and  like  your  spirit.  Sir  John,  I'm  in 
the  way,  I  see;  for  I  know  your  benevolence  is  so  delicate  thai  you 
never  allow  any  one  to  detect  it !  [Retires  and  goes  off,  c.  l. 

Eve.  I  could  not  do  your  commissions  to-day — I  have  been  to  visit  a 
poor  woman,  who  was  my  nurse  and  my  mother's  last  friend.  She  is 
very  poor — very — sick — dying — and  she  owes  six  months'  rent  ! 

Sir  J.  (l  ).  You  know  I  should  be  most  happy  to  do  anything  fur 
yourself.  But  the  nurse — (aside)  Some  people's  nurses  are  always  ill  ! 
{aloud)  There  are  so  many  impostors  about !     We'll  talk  of  it  to-morrow, 


20  MONET.  [ACT  I 

(Evelyn  got*  to  the  table,  l.)  This  mournful  occasion  takes  up  all  of  my 
attention,  (looking  at  his  ivatch)  Bless  me  !  so  late!  I've  letters  to  write, 
and — none  of  the  pens  are  mended  !  [Exit,  r. 

Geor.  {taking  out  her  purse,  r.).  1  think  I  will  give  it  to  him — and  yet 
if  I  don't  get  the  fortune  after  all ! — Papa  allows  me  so  little  ! — then  I 
must  hav3  those  earrings,  {puts  up  the  purse)  Mr.  Evelyn,  what  is  the  ad- 
dress of  your  nurse  ? 

Eve.  (writes  at  l  table,  ami  gives  it — aside).  She  has  a  good  heart  with 
all  her  foibles  !  (aloud)  Ah!  Miss  Vesey,  if  that  poor  woman  had  not 
closed  the  eyes  of  my  lost  mother,  Alfred  Evelyn  would  not  have  been 
this  beggar  to  your  father. 

Geor    (reading).  "Mrs.  Staunton,  14  Amos  street,  Pentonville." 
(Clara,  at  the  table,  writes  down  the  address  as  she  hears  Georgina  read  it.) 

Geor.  I  will  certainly  atteud  to  it — (aside)  it  I  get  the  fortune.  i^Eve- 
lyn  goes  up  r.  ) 

Sir  J.  (■ailing,  without).  Georgy,  I  say  ! 

Geor.  Yes,  papa!  [Exit,  r. 

Evelyn  has  sealed  himself  again    at  the  fable— 10   the  right. — and  leans  his 
face  on  his  hands. 

Clara.  His  noble  spirit  bowed  to  this  !  Ah,  at  least  here  I  may  give 
him  comfort,  (sits  down  to  write)  But  he  will  recognize  my  hand. 

Me-enler  Lady  Franklin,  c. 

Lady  F.  (looking  over  her  shoulder).  What  bill  are  you  paying,  Clara  1 
— putting  up  a  bank-note  ? 

Clara.  Hush! — 0,  Lady  Franklin,  you  are  the  kindest  of  human  be- 
ings. This  is  for  a  poor  person — I  would  not  have  her  know  whence  it 
came,  or  she  would  refuse  it !  Would  you? — No — No — he  knows  her 
handwriting  also  ! 

Lady  F.  AVill  I — what"? — give  the  money  myself  ? — with  pleasure! 
Poor  Clara — why,  this  covers  all  your  savings — and  I  am  so  rich  ! 

Clara.  Nay,  I  would  wish  to  do  all  myself  !  It  is  a  pride — a  duty — 
it  is  a  joy  ;  and  I  have  so  few  joys  !  But  hush  ! — this  way.  (they  retire 
into  the  inner  room  and  converse  in  dumb  shoiv.) 

Eve.  (seated).  And  thus  must  I  grind  out  my  life  for  ever!  I  am  am- 
bitious, and  Poverty  drass  me  down  ;  I  have  learning,  and  Poverty 
makes  me  the  drudge  of  fools  !  I  love,  and  Poverty  stands  like  a  spec- 
tre before  the  altar !  But  no,  no — if,  as  1  believe,  I  am  but  loved  asain, 
I  will— will — what? — turn  opium  eater,  and  dream  of  the  Eden  I  may 
never  enter?  (Lady  Franklin  and  Clara  advance,  c.) 

Clara.  But  you  must  be  sure  that  Evelyn  never  knows  that  I  sent 
this  money  to  his  nurse. 

Lady  F.  (to  Clara).  Never  fear — I  will  get  my  maid  to  copy  and  di- 
rect this — she  writes  well,  and  her  hand  will  never  be  discovered.  I 
will  have  it  done  and  sent  instantly.  [Exit,  r. 

Clara  advances  to  the  front  of  stage,  and  seats  herself,  r.  c  ;   Evelyn  read- 
ing.    Enter  Sir  Frederick  Blount,  c.  l.  ;  he  comes  down,  l.  c. 

Blount.  No  one  in  the  woom  ! — Oh,  Miss  Douglas  !  Pway  don't  let 
me  disturb  you.  Where  is  Miss  Vesey — Georgina  ?  (taking  Clara's 
chair  'as  she  rises.) 

Eve.  (looking  up,  gives  Clara  a  chair,  and  reseats  himself.  Aside)  Inso- 
lent puppy  ! 


ACT  I.]  MONET.  21 

Clara.  Shall  I  tell  her  you  are  here,  Sir  Frederick? 

Blount.  Not  for  the  world.     Vewy  pwetty  girl  this  companion!  (sits 
l.  c.) 

Clara.  What  did  you  think  of  the  Panorama  the  other  day,  Cousin 
Evelyn ! 

Eve.   (reading). 

"  I  cannot  talk  with  civet  in  the  room, 
A  fine  puss  gentleman- that's  all  perfume  !" 
Rather  good  lines  these. 

Blount.  Sir ! 

Eve.  (offering  the  look).  Don't  you  think  so  1 — Cowper. 

Blount,  (declining  the  book).  Cowper  ! 

Eve.  Cowper. 

Blount  (shrugging  his  shoulders,  to  Clara).  Stwange  person,  Mr.  Eve- 
lyn ! — quite  a  chawacter  ! — Indeed  the  Panowama  gives  you  no  idea  of 
Naples — a  delightful  place.  I  make  it  a  wule  to  go  there  evewy  second 
year — I'm  vewy  fond  of  twavelling.  You'd  like  Wome  (Rome) — had  inns, 
but  vewy  fine  wuins;  gives  you  quite  a  taste  for  that  sort  of  thing  ! 

Eve.  (reading). 

"  How  much  a  dunce  that  has  been  sent  to  roam 
Excels  a  dunce  that  has  been  kept  at  home  !" 

Blount.  Sir  1 

Eve.  Cowper. 

Blount  (aside).  That  fellow  Cowper  says  vewy  odd  things  !  Humph  ! 
it  is  beneath  me  to  quawwell.  [aloud)  It  will  not  take  long  to  wead  the 
will,  I  suppose.  Poor  old  Mordaunt ! — I  am  his  nearest  male  welation. 
He  was  vewy  eccentwic.  (draws  his  chair  nearer)  By  the  way,  Miss 
Douglas,  did  you  wemark  my  cuwicle  ?  It  is  bwinging  cuwieles  into 
fashion.  I  should  be  most  happy  if  you  will  allow  me  to  dwive  you  out. 
Nay — nay — I  should,  upon  my  word,  (trying  to  take  her  hand.) 

Eve  (starting  up).  A  wasp! — a  wasp! — just  going  to  settle.  Take 
care  of  the  wasp,  Miss  Douglas! 

Blount.  A  wasp — where  ! — don't  bwing  it  this  way — some  people 
don't  mind  them  !  I've  a  particlar  dislike  to  wasps  ;  they  sting  damna- 
bly ! 

Eve.  I  beg  pardon — it's  only  a  gadfly. 

Enter  Page,  r. 

Page.  Sir  John  will  be  happy  to  see  you  in  his  study,  Sir  Frederick. 

[Exit  Page,  c.  l. 

Blount.  Vewy  well,  (rises  and  goes  r  )  Upon  my  word,  there  is  some- 
thing vewy  nice  about  this  girl.  To  be  sure  I  love  Georgina — but  if 
this  one  would  take  a  fancy  to  me — (thought/ all g)  —  Well,  I  don't  see 
what  harm  it  could  do  me!     Auplaisir?  [Exit,  r. 

Clara  takes  her  chair  to  R.  o/l.  table. 

Eve.  Clara! 

Clara.  Cousin!  (coming  forward,  l.) 

Eve.  And  you,  too,  are  a  dependant  1 

Clara.  But  on  Lady  Franklin,  who  seeks  to  make  me  forget  it. 

Eve.  Ay,  but  can  the  world  forget  it  ?  This  insolent  condescension — 
this  coxcombry  of  admiration — more  galling  than  the  arrogance  of  con- 
tempt! Look  you  now — Robe  Beauly  in  silk  and  cashmere — hand  Vir- 
tue into  her  chariot — lackey  their  caprices — wrap  them  from  the  winds 
— fence  them  round  with  a  "olden  circle — and  Virtue  and  Beauty  are  as 


22  MONEY.  [ACT  I, 

goddesses  both  to  peasant  and  to  prince.  Strip  them  of  the  adjuncts — 
see  Beauty  and  Virtue  poor — dependant — solitary — walking  the  world 
defenceless  !  oh,  then  the  devotion  changes  its  character — the  same 
crowd  gather  eagerly  around — fools — fops — libertines — not  to  worship 
at  the  shrine,  but  to  sacrifice  the  victim  ! 

Clara.  My  cousin,  you  are  cruel !— I  can  smile  at  the  pointless  inso- 
lence. 

Eve.  Smile — and  he  took  your  hand!  Oh,  Clara,  you. know  not  the 
tortures  that  I  suffer  hourly  !  When  others  approach  you — young — fair 
— rich — the  sleek  darlings  of  the  world— 1  accuse  you  of  your  very 
beauty — I  writhe  beneath  every  smile  that  you  bestow.  (Clara,  about  to 
speak)  No — speak  not — my  heart  ha3  broken  its  silence",  and  you  shall 
hear  the  rest.  For  you  I  have  endured  the  weary  bondage  of  this  house 
— the  fool's  gibe — the  hireling's  sneer — the  bread  purchased  by  toils 
that  should  have  led  me  to  loftier  ends  ;  yes,  to  see  you — hear  you — 
breathe  the  s.ime  air — he  ever  at  hand — that  if  others  slighted,  from  one 
at  least  you  might  receive  the  luxury  of  respect — for  this — for  this  I 
have  lingered,  suffered,  and  forborne.  Oh,  Clara  !  we  are  orphans  both 
— friendless  both  ;  you  are  all  in  the  world  to  me  ;  {she  turns  away)  turn 
not  away — my  very  soul  speaks  in  these  words — I  love  you!  {kneels.) 

Clara.  No — Evelyn — Alfred — no!  Say  it  not;  think  it  not!  it  were 
madness. 

Eve  Madness  ! — nay,  hear  me  yet.  I  am  poor,  dependant — a  beg- 
Ear  for  bread  to  a  dying  servant.  True!  But  I  have  a  heart  of  iron.  I 
have  knowledge — patience — health — and  my  love  for  you  gives  me  at 
last  ambition  !  I  have  trifled  with  my  own  energies  till  now,  for  I  de- 
spised all  things  till  I  loved  you.  With  you  to  toil  for — your  step  to 
support — your  path  to  smooth — and  I — I,  poor  Alfred  Evelyn — promise 
at  last  to  win  for  you  even  fame  and  fortune  !  Do  not  withdraw  your 
hand — this  hand — shall  it  not  be  minel 

Clara.  Ah,  Evelyn  !     Never — never!  {crosses  to  r.) 

Eve.  Never  ?  {rises.) 

Clara.  Forget  this  folly ;  our  union  is  impossible,  and  to  talk  of  love 
were  to  deceive  both  ! 

Eve.  {bitterly).  Because  I  am  poor ! 

Clara.  And  I  too  !  A  marriage  of  privation — of  penury — of  days  that 
dread  the  morrow  !    I  have  seen  such  a  lot !    Never  return  to  this  again. 

Eve.  Enough — you  are  obeyed.  I  deceived  myself — ha — ha  !  I  fan- 
cied that  I  too  was  loved.  I,  whose  youth  is  already  half  gone  with  care 
and  toil — whose  mind  is  soured — whom  nobody  can  love — who  ought  to 
have  loved  no  one  ! 

Clara  (aside).  And  if  it  were  only  j.  to  suffer,  or  perhaps  to  starve  ! 
Oh,  what  shall  I  say  1  {aloud)  Evelyn — cousin! 

Eve.  Madam. 

Clara.  Alfred — I — I 

Eve.  Reject  me  1 

Clara.  Yes.     It  is  past!  [Exit,  r. 

Eve.  Let  me  think.  It  was  yTesterday  her  hand  trembled  when  mine 
touched  it.  And  the  rose  I  gave  her — yes,  she  pressed  her  lips  to  it 
once  when  she  seemed  as  if  she  saw  me  not.  But  it  was  a  trap — a  trick 
— for  I  was  as  poor  then  as  now.  This  will  he  a  jest  for  them  all  ! 
Well,  courage  !  it  is  but  a  poor  heart  that  a  coquette's  contempt  can 
break,  (retires  up  to  the  table,  r.) 

Enter  Lord  Glossmore,  preceded  by  Page,  c.  l. 

Page.  I  will  tell  Sir  John,  my  Lord.  {Exit,  r.  Evelyn  takes  up  the 
newspaper.) 


act  i.]  Mo>-F.r.  23 

Gloss.  The  secretary — hum!  Fine  day,  sir;  any  news  from  tli3 
east  1 

Eve.  Yes — all  the  wise  men  have  gone  hack  there ! 

Servant,  c.  l.,  announaa  Mr.  Stout,  r. 

Gloss.  Ha!  ha! — not  all,  for  here  comes  Mr.  Stout,  the  great  politi- 
cal economist. 

Enter  Stout,  c.  l. 

Stout  (r.  c  ).  Good  morning,  Glossmore. 

Gloss,  (l.).  Glossmore  ! — the  parvenu  ! 

Stout.  Afraid  I  might  he  late — heeu  detained  at  the  vestry — aston- 
ishing how  ignorant  the  English  poor  are  !  Took  me  an  hour  and  a 
half  to  beat  it  into  the  head  of  a  stupid  old  widow,  with  nine  children, 
that  to  allow  her  three  shillings  a  week  was  against  all  rules  of  public 
morality.   (Evelyn*  rises  and  comes  dozen,  r.) 

Eve.  Excellent — admirable — your  hand,  sir  ! 

Gloss.  What !  you  approve  such  doctrines,  Mr.  Evelyn  1  Are  old 
women  only  fit  to  be  starved  1 

Eve.  Starved!  popular  delusion!  Observe,  my  lord,  (crosses,  c.)  to 
squander  money  upon  those  who  starve  is  only  to  afford  eucouragement 
to  starvation ! 

Stout.   A  very  superior  person  that  ! 

Gloss.  Atrocious  principles !  Give  me  the  good  old  times,  when  it 
was  the  duty  of  the  rich  to  succor  the  distressed. 

Eve.  On  second  thoughts,  you  are  right,  my  lord  I,  to<>,  know  a  poor 
woman — ill — dying — in  want.     Shall  she,  too,  perish  .' 

Gloss.  Perish !  horrible — in  a  Christian  country  !  Perish  !  Heaven 
forbid ! 

Eve.  (holding  out  his  hand).  What,  then,  will  you  give  her? 

Gloss.  Ahem  !     Sir,  the  parish  ought  to  give. 

Stout.  By  no  means  ! 

Gloss.  By  all  means  ! 

Stout.   No! — no! — no!     Certainly  not !  (with  great  vehemence.) 

Gloss.  No  !  no  !  But  I  say,  yes  \  yes  !  And  if  the  parish  refuse  to 
maintain  the  poor,  the  only  way  left  to  a  man  of  firmness  and  resolution, 
holding  the  principles  that  I  do,  and  adhering  to  the  constitution  of  our 
fathers,  is  to  force  the  poor  on  the  parish  by  never  giving  them  a  farth- 
ing line's  self. 

Stout.  No!— no! — no! 

Gloss.  Yes  ! — yes  ! — yes  ! 

Eve.  Gentlemen  ! — gentlemen  ! — perhaps  Sir  John  will  decide,  (point- 
ing to  Sin  John  as  he  enters,  and  retires  to  table,  takes  up  a  book,  reads,  i 

Enter  Sin  John,  Lady  Franklin*,  Georgina,  Blount,  Page,  r.     Page 

gves  off,  c.  l.     Lady  Franklin  goes  to  table,  l.,  and  sits. 

Sir  J.  How  d'ye  do  1  Ah  !  how  d'ye  do,  gentlemen  1  This  is  a  mos) 
melancholy  meeting  !     The  poor  deceased  !  what  a  man  he  was  ! 

Blount  (r.).  I  was  chwistened  Fwederick  after  him  !  He  was  my 
first  cmisin. 

Sir  J.  (a).  And  Georgina  his  own  niece — next  of  kin!  an  excellent 
man,  thou"h  odd— a  kind  heart,  but  no  liver !  I  sent  him  twice  a  year 
thirty  dozen  of  the  Cheltenham  waters.  It's  a  comfort  to  reflect  on 
these  little  attentions  at  such  a  time. 

Stout.  And  I,  too,  sent   him  the   parliamentary  debates   regularly, 


24  MONEY  [aci  I. 

bound  in  calf.  He  was  my  second  cousin — sensible  man— and  a  fol- 
lower of  Malthus ;  never  married  to  increase  the  surplus  population,  and 
fritter  away  his  money  ou  his  own  children.     And  now 

Eve.  He  reaps  the  benefit  of  celibacy  in  the  prospective  gratitude  of 
every  cousin  he  had  in  the  world  ! 

Lady  F.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Sir  J.  Hush  !  hush  !  decency,  Lady  Franklin  ;  decency  ! 

Enter  Page,  c.  l. 

Page.  Mr.  Graves — Mr.  Sharp. 

Sir  J.  Oh,  here's  Mr.  G.-aves  ;  that's  Sharp  the  lawyer,  who  brought 
the  will  from  Calcutta. 

Enter  Mr.  Graves,  and  Mr.  Sharp,  who  goes  immediately  to  h.  table,  and 
prepares  his  papers. 

Chorus  of  Sir  John,  Gloss.more,  Blount,  Stout.  Ah,  sir — ah,  Mr. 
Graves  !  (Georgina  holds  her  handkerchiej  to  her'cyes.) 

Sir  J.  A  sad  occasion  ! 

Graves.  But  everything  in  life'  is  sad.  Be  comforted,  Miss  Vesey  ! 
True,  you  have  lost  an  uncle  ;  but  I — I  have  lost  a  wife — such  a  wife  ! — 
the  first  of  her  sex — and  the  second  cousin  of  the  defunct ! 

Enter  Servants,  c. 

Excuse  me,  Sir  John;  at  the  sight  of  your  mourning  my  wounds  bleed 
afresh.  (Servants  hand  round  wine  and  cake.) 

Sir  J.  Take  some  refreshment — a  glass  of  wine. 

Graves.  Thank  you! — (Very  fine  sherry  !)  Ah!  my  poor  sainted 
Maria  !  Sherry  was  her  wine  !  everything  reminds  me  of  Maria  !  Ah, 
Lady  Franklin  !  you  knew  her.  Nothing  in  life  can  charm  me  now. 
(aside)   A  monstrous  fine  woman  that ! 

Sir  J.  And  now  to  business,  {they  each  take  a  chair)  Evelyn,  you  may 
retire.  {All  sit.     Servants  retire,  c.     Evelyn  rises.) 

Sharp  (looking  at  his  notes).  Evelyn — any  relation  to  Alfred  Evelyn? 
(to  Evelyn,  who  is  going,  c.) 

Eve.  The  same. 

Shap.p.  Cousiu  to  the  deceased,  seven  times  removed.  Be  seated,  sir ; 
there  may  be  some  legacy,  though  trifling;  all  the  relations,  however 
distant,  should  be  present.  (Evklyn  reluctantly  resumes  his  seat.) 

Lady  F.  Then  Clara  is  related — I  will  go  for  her.  [Exit   r. 

Geor.  Ah,  Mr.  Evelyn  !  I  hope  you  will  come  in  for  something — a 
few  hundreds,  or  even  more. 

Sir  J.  Silence !     Hush  !     Wugh  !     Ugh  !     Attention  ! 

WJule  the  Lawyer  opens  the  will,  re-enter  Lady  Franklin  and  Clara.    They 
cross  behind  the  characters  to  L.,  up  the  stage,  and  sit. 

Disposition  of  Characters. 

Evelyn.  Lady  Ft.anklin,  Clara. 

Sir  John.     Stout.     Glossmore. 
Blount.     Georgina.  Graves.     Sharp. 

r.  L. 


ACT  I.] 


MONET. 


Sharp.  The  will  is  very  short — being  all  personal  property.  He  was 
a  man  that  always  came  to  the  point. 

Sir  J.  I  wish  there  were  more  like  him  !  (groans  and  shakes  hi's  head.) 
Shakp  (reading).  "  I,  Frederick  James  Mordaunt,  of  Calcutta,  being, 
at  the  present  date,  of  sound  mind,  though  infirm  body,  do  hereby  give, 
will,  and  bequeath — Imprimis,  To  my  second  cousin,  Benjamin  Stout, 
E-q.,  of  Pall  Mall,  London — (Stout  puis  a  large  silk  handkerchief  to  kis 
eyes.  Chorus  exhibit  lively  emotion)  Being  the  value  of  the  Parliamentary 
Debates  with  which  he  has  been  pleased  to  trouble  me  for  some  time 
past — deducting  the  carriage  thereof,  which  he  always  forgot  to  pay — 
the  sum  of  £14  2s.  4d."  (Stout  removes  the  handkerchief ;  Chorus  breathe 
more  freely!) 

Stout.  Eli,  what  1— £14  ?     Oh,  hang  the  old  miser ! 

Sir  J.  Decency — decency  !     Proceed,  sir.     Go  on,  sir,  go  on. 

Sharp.  "  Item. — To  Sir  Frederick  Blount,  Baronet,  my  nearest  male 
relative — "  (Chorus  exhibit  lively  emotion.) 

Blount.  Poor  old  boy  !  (Georgina  puts  her  arm  over  Blount's  chair.) 

Sharp.  "  Being,  as  I  am  informed,  the  best-dressed  young  gentleman 
in  London,  and  in  testimony  to  the  only  merit  I  ever  heard  he  possessed, 
the  sum  of  £500  to  buy  a  dressing-case."  (Chorus  breathe  more  freely  ; 
Georgina  catches  her  father's  eye,  and  removes  her  arm.) 

Blount  (laughing  confusedly).  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Vewy  poor  wit — low! — 
vewy — vewy  low  ! 

Sir  J.  Silence,  now,  will  you  1     Go  on,  sir,  go  on. 

Sharp.  "  Item. — To  Charles  Lord  Glossmore — who  asserts  that  he  is 
my  relation — my  collection  of  dried  butterflies,  and  the  pedigree  of  the 
Mordaunt s  from  the  reign  of  King  John.  (Chorus  as  before.) 

Gloss.  Butterflies! — Pedigree! — I  disown  the  Plebeian! 

Sir  J.  (angrily).  Upon  my  word,  this  is  too  revolting  !  Decency  !  Go 
on,  sir,  go  on. 

Sharp.  "  Item. — To  Sir  John  Vesev,  Baronet,  Knight  of  the  Guelph, 
F.R.S.,  F.S.A.,  etc."  (Chorus  as  before") 

Sir  J.  Hush  !     Now  it  is  really  interesting  ! 

Sharp.  "  Who  married  my  sister,  and  who  senv.s  me  every  year  the 
Cheltenham  waters,  which  nearly  gave  me  my  death,  I  bequeath — the 
empty  bottles." 

Sir  J.  Why,  the  ungrateful,  rascally  old 

Lady  F.  Decency,  Sir  John — decency  ! 

Chorus.  Decency,  Sir  John — decency  ! 

Sharp.  "Item. — To  Henry  Graves,  Esq.,  of  the  Albany — "  (Clwrus  as 
before.) 

Graves.  Pooh  !  gentlemen — my  usual  luck — not  even  a  ring,  I  dare 
swear. 

Sharp.  "  The  sum  of  £5,000  in  the  Three  per  Cents." 

Lady  F.  I  wish  you  joy ! 

Graves.  Joy — pooh  !  Three  per  Cents.  !  Funds  sure  to  go  !  Had 
it  been  land,  now — though  only  an  acre! — just  like  my  luck. 

Sharp.  "  Item. — To  my  niece,  Georgina  Vesey (chorus  as  before.) 

Sir  J.  Ah,  now  it  comes  ! 

Sharp.  "  The  sum  of  £10,000  India  Stock,  bein<i,  with  her  father's 
reputed  savings,  as  much  as  a  single  woman  ought  to  possess." 

Sir  J.  And  what  the  devil,  then,  does  the  old  fool  do  with  all  his 
money  ? 

Chorus.  Really,  Sir  John,  this  is  too  revolting.     Decency  !     Hush  ! 

Sharp.  "  And,  with  the  aforesaid  legacies  and  exceptions,  I  do  will 
and  bequeath  the  whole  of  my  fortune,  in  India  Stock,  Bonds,  Ex- 
chequer Bills,  Three  per  Cent.  Consols,  and  in  the  Bank  of  Calcutta  (con- 


26  MONEY.  [ACT  II. 

stituting  him  hereby  sole  residuary  legatee  and  joint  executor  with  the 
aforesaid  Henry  Graves,  Esq.),  to — Alfred  Evelyn,  now,  or  formerly,  of 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge — [all  turn  to  Evelyn;  universal  excitement. 
Evelyn  starts  up,  closes  his  book,  and  easts  it  upon  the  table)  Being,  I  am 
told,  an. oddity,  like  myself — the  only  one  of  my  relations  who  never 
fawned  on  me  ;  and  who,  having  known  privation,  may  the  better  employ 
wealth."  {all  rise.  Evklyn  advances,  c,  as  if  in  a  dream)  And  now,  sir, 
I  have  only  to  wish  you  joy,  and  give  you  this  letter  from  the  deceased 
— I  believe  it  is  important,   {gives  letter  to  Evelyn.) 

Eve.  {aside).   Ah,  Clara,  if  you  had  but  loved  me! 

Clara  {turning  away).  And  his  wealth,  even  more  than  poverty,  sep- 
arates us  for  ever !   (Omnes  eroivd  round  to  congratulate  Evelyn.) 

Sir  J.  {aside  to  Georgina  \  Go,  child,  put  a  good  face  on  it — he's  an 
immense  match  !  {aloud)  My  dear  fellow,  I  wish  you  joy ;  you  are  a 
great  man  now — a  very  great  man !  I  wish  you  joy.  {shakes  his  hand 
very  warmly. ) 

Eve.   (aside).   And  her  voice  alone  is  silent ! 

Gloss  If  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you 

Stout.  Or  I,  sir 

Blount.  Or  1  !     Shall  I  put  you  up  at  the  clubs  1 

Sharp.  You  will  want  a  man  of  business.  I  transacted  all  Mr.  Mor- 
daunt's  affairs. 

Sir  J.  Tush,  tush  !  Mr.  Evelyn  is  at  home  here — always  looked  upon 
him  as  a  son!  Nothing  in  the  world  we  would  not  do  for  him!  Noth- 
ing! 

Eve.  Nothing  !  then  lend  me  £10  for  my  old  nurse.  (Chorus put  their 
hands  in  their  pockets.) 

CURTAIN. 


ACT   II. 


SCENE  I. — An  anteroom  in  Evelyn's  new  house;  Mr.  Sharp  writing  at 
a  desk,  l.,  books  and  parchments  before  him — Mr.  Crimson,  the  portrait 
painter ;  Mr.  Grabb,  the  publisher ;  Mr.  MacStucco,  the  architect; 
Mr.  Tabouret,  the  upholsterer;  Mr.  MacFinch,  the  silversmith; 
Mr.  Patentj  the  coachmaker ;  Mr.  Kite,  the  horse-dealer ;  and  Mb. 
Frantz,  the  tailor. 

Patent  {to  Frantz,  showing  him  a  drawing,.  Yes,  sir  ;  this  is  the 
Evelyn  vis-;\-vis!  No  one  more  the  fashion  than  Mr.  Evelyn.  Money 
makes  the  man,  sir. 

Frantz.  But  de  tailor,  de  Schneider  make  de  gentleman  !  It  is  Mr. 
Frantz,  of  St.  James', who  take  his  measure  and  his  cloth,  and  who  make 
de  fine  handsome  noblemen  and  gentry,  where  de  faders  and  de  mutters 
make  only  de  ugly  little  naked  boys  I 

MacStuc  (l.  a).  He's  a  mon  o'  teeste,  Mr.  Evelyn.  He  taulks  o' 
buying  a  veela  (villa),  just  to  pool  down  and  build  oop  again.  Ah,  Mr. 
MacFinch  !  a  design  for  a  piece  of  pleete,  eh  1 

MacFinch  (l.,  showing  the  drawing).  Yees,  sir;  the  shield  o'  Alexan- 
der the  Great  to  hold  ices  and  lemonade  I  It  will  coost  two  thousand 
poon' ! 

MacStuc.  And  it's  dirt  cheap — ye're  Scotch,  ain't  ye? 

MacFinch.  Aberdounshire  ' — scraitch  me,  and  I'll  scraitch  vou  ! 


ACT  II.]  MONEY.  27 

Enter  Evelyn,  c.  d.  l. 

Eve.  A  levee,  as  usual.  Good  da}*.  Ah,  Tabouret,  (Tabourf.t  pre- 
sents a  drawing)  your  designs  for  the  draperies  ;  very  well.  {Exit  Ta- 
bouret, k.)  And  what  do  you  want,  Mr.  Crimson  1 

Crim.  (r .).  Sir,  if  you'd  let  me  take  your  portrait,  it  would  make  my 
fortune.     Every  one  says  you're  the  finest  judge  of  paintings. 

Eve.  Of  paintings  !  paintings  !  Are  you  sure  I'm  a  judge  of  paint- 
ings ? 

Crim.   Oh,  sir,  didn't  you  buy  the  great  Corregio  for  £4,000  1 

Eve.  True — I  see.  So  £4,000  makes  me  an  excellent  judge  of  paint- 
ings. I'll  call  on  you,  Mr.  Crimson — good  day.  {Exit  Crimson,  r.  Eve- 
lyn turns  to  the  rest  who  surround  him.) 

Kite.  Thirty  young  horses  from  Yorkshire,  sir  ! 

Patent  (showing  drawing).  The  Evelyn  vis-a-vis! 

MacFincii  {showing  drawing).  The  Evelyn  salver  ! 

Fuantz  (opening  his  bundle,  and  with  dignity).  Sare,  I  have  brought  de 
coat — ile  great  Evelyn  coat. 

Eve.  Oh,  go  to — that  is,  go  home.  Make  me  as  celebrated  for  a  vis- 
a-vis,  salvers,  furniture,  and  coats,  as  I  already  am  for  painting,  and 
shortly  shall  be  for  poetry.     I  resign  myself  to  you — 20  !  {crosses  l.1) 

[Exeunt  MacFinch,  Patent,  etc.,  a.* 

Enter  Stout,  r.,  he  places  his  hat  on  r.  table. 

Eve.  Stout,  you  look  heated  ! 

Stout.  I  hear  that  you  have  just  bought  the  great  Groginhole  prop- 
erty. 

Eve.  It  is  true.     Sharp  says  it's  a  bargain. 

Stout.  Well,  my  dear  friend  Hopkins,  member  for  Groginhole,  can't 
live  another  month — but  the  interests  of  mankind  forbid  regret  for  indi- 
viduals !  The  patriot  Popkius  intends  to  start  for  the  borough  the 
instant  Hopkins  is  dead — your  interests  will  secure  his  election.  Now 
is  your  time  !  put  yourself  forward  in  the  march  of  enlightenment,  {turns 
and  sees  Glossmore)  By  all  that  is  bigoted,  here  comes  Glossmore ! 
(goes  up  the  stage  and  listens.) 

Enter  Glossmoke,  r.     Evelyn  crosses  to  meet  him. 

Gloss.  So  lucky  to  find  you  at  home !  Hopkins,  of  Groginhole,  is  not 
long  fdr  this  world.  Popkins,  the  brewer,  is  already  canvassing  under- 
hand (so  very  ungentlenianlike  !).  Keep  your  interest  for  young  Lord 
Cipher — a  most  valuable  candidate.  This  is  an  awful  moment — the  con- 
stitution depends  on  his  return !     Vote  for  Cipher. 

Stout  (l.).  Popkins  is  your  man  ! 

Eve.  (musingly).  Cipher  and  Popkins — Popkins  and  Cipher!  En- 
lightenment and  Popkins — Cipher  and  the  Constitution  !  I  am  puzzled! 
Stout,  I  am  not  known  at  Groginhole. 

Stout.  Your  property's  known  there  ! 

Eve.  But  purity  of  election — independence  of  votes 

*  The  dialogue  of  this  scene,  up  to  this  point,  is  sometimes  omitted,  and  whtu 
that  is  the  ease,  begin  thus  :  — 

Enter  Stout,  preceded  by  a  Servant,  r. 

Serv.  I'll  tell  my  master  you  -wish  to  see  him.    Oh  1  Mr.  Evelyn  is  here,  sir  ! 

Enter  Evelyn,  l. 


28  MONEY.  [ACT  II. 

Stout.  To  be  sure  ;  Cipher  bribes  abominably.  Frustrate  his  schemes 
— preserve  the  liberties  of  tlie  borough — turn  every  man  out  of  his  house 
who  votes  against  enlightenment  and  Popkins  ! 

Eve.  Right! — down  with  those  who  take  the  liberty  to  admire  any 
liberty  except  our  liberty  !     That  is  liberty  ! 

Gloss.  Cipher  has  a  stake  in  the  country — will  have  £50,000  a  year 
— Cipher  will  never  give  a  vote  without  considering  beforehand  how  peo- 
ple of  £50,000  a  year  will  be  affected  by  the  motion. 

Eve.  Right!  for  as  without  law  there  would  be  no  property,  so  to  be 
the  law  for  property  is  the  only  proper  property  of  law!  That  is 
law! 

Stout.  Popkins  is  all  for  economy — there's  a  sad  waste  of  the  public 
money — they  give  the  Speaker  £5,000  a  year,  when  I've  a  brother-in- 
law,  who  takes  the  chair  at  the  vestry,  and  who  assures  me  confiden- 
tially he'd  consent  to  be  Speaker  for  half  the  money  ! 

Gloss.  Enough,  Mr.  Stout.  Mr.  Evelyn  has  too  mucn  at  stake  for  a 
leveller. 

Stout.  And  too  much  sense  for  a  bigot. 

Gloss.  Bigot,  sir  1 

Stout.  Yes,  sir,  bigot! 

Eve.  Mr.  Evelyn  has  no  politics  at  all !  Did  you  ever  play  at  battle- 
dore ? 

Both.  Battledore  ! 

Eve.  Battledore! — that  is  a  contest  between  two  parties;  both  par- 
ties knock  about  something  with  singular  skill — something  is  kept  up — 
high — low — here — there — everywhere — nowhere  !  How  grave  are  the 
players  !  how  anxious  the  bystanders!  how  noisy  the  battledores!  But 
when  this  something  falls  to  the  ground,  only  fancy — it's  nothing  but 
cork  and  feather!  Go,  and  play  by  yourselves — I'm  no  hand  at  it! 
{crosses,  l  ) 

Stout  (aside).  Sad  ignorance  ! — Aristocrat!  (o-osses  to  r.  c. ) 

Gloss,  (aside).  Heartless  principles  ! — Parvenu!  (goes  vp  the  stage.) 

Suout.  Then  you  don't  go  against  us  1  I'll  bring  Popkins  to-morrow. 
(goes  to  R.  table,  gets  his  hat. ) 

Gloss.  Keep  yourself  free  till  I  present  Cipher  to  you  ! 

Stout.  I  must  go  to  inquire  after  Hopkins.  The  return  of  Popkins 
will  be  an  era  in  history !  [Exit,  r. 

Gloss.  I  must  be  off  to  the  club — the  eyes  of  the  country  are  upon 
Groginhole.     If  Cipher  fail,  the  constitution  is  gone !  [Exit,  r 

Eve.  (r.  c.).  Both  sides  alike  !  Money  versus  Man  ! — poor  man  ! — 
Sharp,  come  here — (Sharp  advances)  let  me  look  at  you  !  You  are  my 
agent,  my  lawyer,  my  man  of  business.  I  believe  you  honest ; — but 
what  is  honesty  1  where  does  it  exist  ? — in  what  part  of  us  1 

Sharp.  In  the  heart,  I  suppose,  sir  ? 

Eve.  Mr.  Sharp.it  exists  in  the  breeches-pocket!  (goes  to  table,  r.) 
Observe:  I  lay  this  piece  of  yellow  earth  on  the  table — I  contemplate 
you  both ;  the  man  there — the  gold  here.  Now,  there  is  many  a  man 
in  those  streets  honest  as  you  are.  who  moves,  thinks,  feels,  and  reasons 
as  well  as  we  do ;  excellent  in  form — imperishable  in  soul ;  who,  if  his 
pockets  were  three  days  empty,  would  sell  thought,  reason,  body,  and 
soul,  too,  for  that  little  coin !  Is  that  the  fault  of  the  man  1 — no  !  it  is 
the  fault  of  mankind !  God  made  man ;  behold  what  mankind  have 
made  a  god !  When  I  was  poor,  I  hated  the  world  ;  now  I  am  rich,  I 
despise  it !  Fools — knaves — hypocrites ! — By  the  bye,  Sharp,  Fend 
£100  to  the  poor  bricklayer  whose  house  was  burned  down  yesterday. 
(Sharp  goes  to  his  desk.) 


ACT  II.]  MONET.  29 

Enter  Graves,  r 

All,  Graves,  my  dear  friend,  what  a  world  this  is  ! 

Gkaves.  It  is  an  atrocious  world  !  But  astronomers  say  that  there  is 
a  travelling  comet  which  must  set  it  on  fire  one  day — and  that's  some 
comfort  ! 

Eve  Every  hour  brings  its  gloomy  lesson — the  temper  sours — the  af- 
Tections  wither — the  heart  hardens  into  stone! — Zounds,  Sharp!  what 
do  you  stand  gaping  there  for  1 — have  you  no  bowels  7 — why  don't  you 
go  and  see  to  the  bricklayer  !  (to  Sharp,  icho  is  standing  r.  Exit  Sharp, 
l.)  Graves,  of  all  my  new  friends — and  their  name  is  Legion — you 
are  the  only  one  I  esteem  ;  there  is  sympathy  between  us — we  take  the 
same  views  of  life.     I  am  cordially  glad  to  see  you! 

Graves  (groaning).  Ah  !  why  should  you  be  glad  to  see  a  man  so 
mi  erable? 

Eve    (sighs).  Because  I  am  miserable  myself. 

Graves.  You  !  Pshaw  !  you  have  not  been  condemned  to  lose  a  wife. 
(Graves  places  his  hat  on  table,  l.) 

Eve.  But,  plague  on  it,  man,  I  may  be  condemned  to  take  one  !  Sit 
down,  and  listen,  (they  seat  thonselves — Graves  l  )  I  want  a  confidant! 
— Left  fatherless  when  yet  a  boy,  my  poor  mother  grudged  herself  food 
to  give  me  education.  Some  one  had  told  her  thr.t  learning  was  better 
than  house  and  land — that's  a  lie,  Graves! 

Graves.  A  scandalous  lie,  Evelyn  ! 

Evk.  On  the  strength  of  that  lie  I  was  put  to  school — sent  to  college, 
a  sizar.  Do  you  know  what  a  sizar  is  ?  In  pride  he  is  a  gentleman — 
in  knowledge  he  is  a  scholar — and  he  crawls  about,  amidst  gentlemen 
and  scholars,  with  the  lively  of  a  pauper  on  his  back!  I  carried  off  the 
great  prizes — I  became  distinguished — I  looked  to  a  high  degree,  lead- 
ing to  a  fellowship;  that  is,  an  independence  for  myself — a  home  for  my 
mother.  One  day  a  young  lord  insulted  me — I  retorted — he  struck  me 
— refused  apology — refused  redress.  I  was  a  sizar  ! — a  Pariah  !  a  thing 
— to  be  struck!  Sir,  I  was  at  least  a  man,  and  I  horsewhipped  him  in 
the  hall  before  the  eyes  of  the  whole  College  !  A  few  days,  and  the 
lord's  chastisement  was  forgotten.  The  next  day  the  sizar  was  expelled 
— the  career  of  a  life  blasted !  That  is  the  difference  between  Rich  and 
Poor;  it  takes  a  whirlwind  to  move  U12  on5 — a  breath  may  uproot  the 
other!  I  came  to  London.  As  long  as  my  mother  lived,  I  had  one  to 
toil  for;  and  I  did  toil — did  hope — did  struggle  to  be  something  yet. 
She  died,  and  then,  somehow,  my  spirit  broke — I  resigned  myself  to  my 
fate ;  the  Alps  above  me  seemed  too  high  to  ascend — I  ceased  to  care 
what  became  of  me.  At  last  I  submitted  to  be  the  poor  relation — the 
hanser-on  and  gentleman-lackey  of  Sir  John  Vesey.  But  I  had  an  ob- 
ject in  that — there  was  one  in  that  house  whom  I  had  loved  at  the  first 
sight. 

Gravrs    And  were  you  loved  again  1 

Evb.  I  fancied  it,  and  was  deceived.  Not  an  hour  before  I  inherited 
this  mighty  wealth  1  confessed  my  love,  and  was  rejected  because  I  was 
poor.  Now,  mark  :  you  remember  the  letter  which  Sharp  gave  me 
when  the  will  was  read  ? 

Graves.   Perfectly  !  what  were  the  contents  1 

Eve.  After  hints,  cautions,  and  admonitions — half  in  irony,  half  in 
earnest  (Ah,  poor  Mordaunt  had  known  the  world  !)  it  proceeded — but 
I'll  read  it  to  you  :  "  Having  selected  you  as  my  heir,  because  I  think 
money  a  trust  to  be  placed  where  it  seems  likely  to  be  best  employed,  I 
now — not  impose  a  condition,  but  ask  a  favor.  If  you  have  formed  no 
other  and  insuperable  attachment,  I  could  wish  to  suggest  your  choice ; 


30  MOXEy.  [act  II. 

my  two  nearest  female  relations  are  my  niece  Georgina,  and  my  third 
cousin,  Clara  Douglas,  the  daughter  of  a  once  dear  friend  If  you  could 
see  in  either  of  these  one  whom  you  could  make  your  wife,  such  would 
be  a  marriage  that,  if  I  live  long  enough  to  return  to  England,  1  would 
seek  to  bring  about  before  I  die."  My  friend,  this  is  not  a  legal  condi- 
tion— the  fortune  does  not  rest  on  it  ;  yet,  need  I  say  that  my  gratitude 
considers  it  a  moral  oblisation'?  Several  months  have  elapsed  since 
thus  called  upon — I  ought  now  to  decide;  you  hear  the  names — Clara' 
Douglas  is  the  woman  who  rejected  me. 

Graves.  But  now  she  would  accept  you  ! 

Eve.  And  do  you  think  I  am  so  base  a  slave  to  passion,  that  I  would 
owe  to  my  gold  what  was  denied  to  my  affection  1  (rises  and  puts  chair 
by  r.  table.) 

Graves.  But  you  must  choose  one,  in  common  gratitude;  you  ought 
to  do  so.  (Graves  replaces  his  chair.) 

Eve.  Of  the  two,  then,  I  would  rather  marry  where  I  should  exact  the 
least.  A  marriage,  to  which  each  can  bring  sober  esteem  and  calm  re- 
gard, may  not  be  happiness,  but  it  may  be  content.  But  to  marry  one 
whom  you  could  adore,  and  whose  heart  is  closed  to  you — to  yearn  for 
the  treasure,  and  only  to  claim  the  casket — to  worship  the  statue  that 
you  never  may  warm  to  life.  Oh !  such  a  marriage  would  be  a  hell,  the 
more  terrible  because  Paradise  was  in  sight,   (crosses  to  r.) 

Graves.  Ah,  it  is  a  comfort  to  think,  my  dear  friend,  as  you  are  sure 
to  be  miserable,  when  you  are  married,  that  we  can  mingle  our  groans 
together.     Georgina  is  pretty,  but  vain  and  frivolous. 

Eve.  You  may  misjudge  Georgina;  she  may  have  a  nobler  nature 
than  appears  on  the  surface.  On  the  day,  but  before  the  hour,  in  which 
the  will  was  read,  a  letter, in  a  strange  or  disguised  hand,  signed,  "  From 
an  unknown  friend  to  Alfred  Evelyn"  and  enclosing  what  to  a  girl  would 
have  been  a  considerable  sum,  was  sent  to  a  poor  woman  for  whom  I  had 
implored  charity,  and  whose  address  I  had  only  given  to  Georgina. 

Graves.   Why  not  assure  yourself? 

Eve.  Because  I  have  not  dared.  For  sometimes,  against  my  reason, 
I  have  hoped  that  it  might  be  Clara,  (taking  a  letter  from  his  bosom  and 
looking  at  it)  No,  I  can't  recognize  the  hand.  Graves,  I  detest  that  girl. 
(crosses  to  r.  corner  and  back  to  l.) 

Graves.    Who  1     Georgina? 

Eve.  No;  Clara!  But  I've  already,  thank  Heaven,  taken  some  revenge 
upon  her.  Come  nearer,  (whispers)  I've  bribed  Sharp  to  say  that  Mor- 
daunt's  letter  to  me  contained  a  codicil  leaving  Clara  Douglas  £20,000. 

Graves.  And  didn't  it  ? 

Eve.  Not  a  farthing.  But  I'm  glad  of  it — I've  paid  the  money — she's 
no  more  a  dependant.  No  one  can  insult  her  now — she  owes  it  all  to  me, 
and  does  not  guess  it,  man — does  not  guess  it— owes  it  to  me — me,  whom 
she  rejected — me,  the  poor  scholar  !  Ha  !  ha ! — there's  some  spite  in 
that,  eh  1 

Graves.  You're  a  fine  fellow,  Evelyn,  and  we  understand  each  other. 
Perhaps  Clara  may  have  seen  the  address,  and  dictated  this  letter  after 
all  ? 

Eve.  Do  you  think  so — I'll  go  to  the  house  this  instant !  (crosses  to  r. 
table  for  his  hat  and  gloves.) 

Graves.  Eh  !  Humph  '  Then  I'll  go  with  you.  That  Lady  Frank- 
lin is  a  fine  woman.     If  she  were  not  so  gay,  I  think — I  could 

Eve.  No,  no  ;  don't  think  any  such  thing ;  women  are  even  worse 
than  men 

Graves.  True ;  to  love  is  a  boy's  madness  ! 

Eve.  To  feel  is  to  suffer. 


ACT  II.]  MONET.  ol 

Graves.  To  hope  is  (o  be  deceived. 
Bvk.  I  have  done  with  romance  ! 
Graves.  Mine  is  buried  with  Maria  ! 

Eve.  It'  Clara  did  but  write  this 

Gkayes.  Make  haste,  or  Lad}'  Franklin  will  be  out !  (Evelyn  catches 
his  eye  ;  he  changes  his  tone)  A  vale  of  tears — a  vale  of  tears  ! 

Eve.  A  vale  of  tears,  indeed  !  [Exe/mf,  it. 

Re-enter  Graves  for  his  hat. 

Graves.  And  I  left  my  hat  behind  me  !  Just  like  my  luck.  If  I  had 
been  bred  a  hatter,  little  boys  would  have  come  into  the  world  without 
heads.  [Exit,  r. 

SCENE  II. — Drawing-rooms  at  Sir  John  Vesey's,  as  in  Act  I.,  Scene  I. 

Lady  Franklin  and  Clara,  r. 

Lady  F.  (r.).  Ha!  ha!  ha!  talking  of  marriage,  I've  certainly  made 
a  conquest  of  Sir.  Graves. 

Clara  (l.).   Mr.  Graves  !  I  thought  he  was  inconsolable. 

Lady  F.  For  his  sainted  Maria  !  Poor  man  !  not  contented  with 
plaguing  him  while  she  lived,  she  must  needs  haunt  him  now  she  is  dead. 

Clara.  But  why  does  he  regret  her  1 

Lady  F.  Why  ?  Because  he  has  everything  to  make  him  happy — 
easy  fortune,  good  health,  respectable  character.  And  since  it  is  his 
delight  to  be  miserable,  he  takes  the  only  excuse  the  world  will  allow 
him.  For  the  rest — it's  the  way  with  widowers;  that  is,  whenever  they 
mean  to  marry  again.  But,  my  dear  Clara,  you  seem  absent — pale — 
unhappy — tears,  too  1 

Clara.  No — no— not  tears.     No  ! 

Lady  F.  Ever  since  Mr.  Mordaunt  left  you  £20,000  every  one  admires 
you.     Sir  Frederick  is  desperately  smitten. 

Clara  {with  disdain).  Sir  Frederick  ! 

Lady  F.  Ah,  Clara,  be  comforted  !  I  am  certain  that  Evelyn  loves 
you. 

Clara.  If  he  did,  it  is  past  now.  You  alone  know  the  true  reason 
why  I  rejected  him.  You  know  that  if  ever  he  should  learn  that  reason, 
he  will  acquit  me  of  the  selfish  motive  he  now  imputes  to  me.    . 

Enter  Sir  John,  B.C.,  and  turns  over  the  books,  etc.,  on  the  table,  as  if  to  look 
for  the  newspaper. 

Lady  F.  Let  me  only  telMiim  that  you  dictated  that  letter — that  yon 
sent  that  money  to  his  old  nurse.  Poor  Clara!  it  was  your  little  all. 
He  will  then  know,  at  least,  if  avarice  be  your  sin. 

Clara    He  would  have  guessed  it  had  his  love  been  like  mine. 

Lady  F.  Guessed  it — nonsense!  The  hand-writing  unknown  to  him 
— every  reason  to  think  it  came  from  Georgina. 

Sir  J.  {aside,  r.,  at  table).  Hum  !     Came  from  Georgina. 

Lady  F.  Come,  let  me  tell  him  this.  I  know  the  effect  it  will  have 
upon  his  choice. 

Clara.  Choice  !  oh,  that  humiliating  word.  No,  Lady  Franklin,  no  ! 
Promise  me ! 

Lady  F.  But 

Clara.  No!     Promise — faithfully — sacredly. 

Lady  F.  Well.  1  promise. 


32  MONEY.  [ACT  II. 

Claka.  I — I — forgive  me — I  am  not  well.  [Exit,  r. 

Lady  F.  What  fools  these  girls  are  ! — they  take  as  much  pains  to  lose 
a  husband  as  a  poor  widow  does  to  get  one! 

Sir  J.  Have  you  seen  "The  Times"  newspaper'?  Where  the  deuce  is 
the  newspaper  1     I  can't  find  "  The  Times"  newspaper. 

Lady  F.  I  think  it  is  in  my  room.     Shali  1  fetcli  it] 

Sir  J.   My  dear  sister — you're  the  best  creature.     Do  ! 

[Exit  Lady  Franklin,  r. 
Ugh  !  you  unnatural  conspirator  against  your  own  family  !     What  can 
this  letter  be  1     Ah  !  1  recollect  something. 

Enter  Georgina,  r.  c. 

Geor.  (l.).  Papa,  I  want— 

Sir  J.  Yes,  I  know  what  you  want  well  enough  !  Tell  me ! — were 
you  aware  that  Clara  had  sent  money  to  that  old  nurse  Evelyn  bored  us 
about  the  day  of  the  will  1 

Geor.  No  !     He  gave  me  the  address,  and  I  promised,  if 

Sir  J.  Gave  you  the  address  ? — that's  lucky  !     Hush  ! 

Enter  Page,  c.  l. 
Page  {announces).  Mr.  Graves — Mr.  Evelyn.  [Exit,  c.  l. 

Enter  Graves  and  Evelyn,  c.  l.     Evelyn,  when  he  enters,  (joes  to  Sir 
John,  then  converses  with  Georgina,  who  is  seated  r.  of  L.  table. 

Lady  F.   {returning).  Here  is  the  newspaper. 

Graves.  Ay — read  the  newspapers! — they'll  tell  you  what  this  world 
is  made  of.  Daily  calendars  of  roguery  and  woe !  Here,  advertise- 
ments from  quacks,  money-lenders,  cheap  warehouses,  and  spotted  boys 
with  two  heads.  So  much  for  dupes  and  impostors!  Turn  to  the  other 
column — police  reports,  bankruptcies,  swindling,  forgery,  and  a  bio- 
graphical sketch  of  the  snub-nosed  man  who  murdered  his  own  three 
little  cherubs  at  Pentonville.  Do  you  fancy  these  but  exceptions  to  the 
general  virtue  and  health  of  the  nation  ] — Turn  to  the  leading  articles  ; 
and  your  hair  will  stand  on  end  at  the  horrible  wickedness  or  melan- 
choly idiotism  of  that  half  of  the  population  who  think  differently  from 
youiself.  In  my  day  I  have  seen  already  eighteen  crises,  six  annihi- 
lations of  Agriculture  and  Commerce,  four  overthrows  of  the  Church, 
and  three  last,  final,  awful,  and  irremediable  destructions  of  the  entire 
Constitution.     And  that's  a  newspaper  ! 

Lady  F.  (r.  a).  Ha !  ha  !  your  usual  vei» ;  always  so  amusing  and 
good-humored ! 

Graves  (l;  c,  frowning  and  very  angry).  Ma'am — good-humored  ! 

Lady  F.  Ah,  you  should  always  wear  that  agreeable  smile  ;  you  look 
so  much  younger — so  much  handsomer — when  you  smile  ! 

Graves  {softened).  Ma'am — {aside)  A  charming  creature,  upon  my 
word ! 

Lady  F.  You  have  not  seen  the  last  Punch  ?  It  is  excellent.  I  think 
it  might  make  you  laugh.     But,  by  the  bye,  I  don't  think  you  can  laugh. 

Graves.  Ma'am — I  have  not  laughed  since  the  death  of  my  sainted 
Ma 

Lady  F.  Ah  !  and  that  spiteful  Sir  Frederick  says  you  never  laugh, 
because — But  you'll  be  angry  ? 

Graves.  Angry  ! — pooh  !     I  despise  Sir  Frederick  too  much  to  let 


ACT  II.]  MONEY.  33 

anything  he  says  have  the  smallest  influence  over  me  .'  He  says  I  don't 
laugh,  because 

Lady  F.  You  have  lost  your  front  teeth. 

Graves.  Lost  my  front  teeth !  Upon  my  word !  Ha !  ha !  ha  ! 
That's  too  good — capital!     Ha!  ha  I  ha!  {laughing  from  ear  to  ear.) 

Lady  F.  Ha!  ha!  ha!         [Exeunt  Lady  Franklin  and  Graves,  c. 

Eve.  [aside,  at  k.  table).  Of  course  Clara  will  not  appear!  avoids  me 
as  usual  !     But  what  do  I  care? — what  is  she  to  me  ?     Nothing  ! 

Sir  J.  (to  GeorginaU  Yes — yes — leave  me  to  manage;  you  took  his 
portrait,  as  I  told  you? 

Geor.  Yes — but  I  could  not  catch  the  expression.  I  got  Clara  to 
touch  it  up. 

Sir  J.  That  girl's  always  in  the  way.  (Page  from  c.  l.  announces  Cap- 
tain Dudley  Smooth.) 

Enter  Captain  Dudley  Smooth,  c.  l. 

Smooth.  Good  morning,  dear  John.  Ah,  Miss  Vesey,  you  have  no 
idea  of  the  conquests  you  made  at  Almack's  last  night. 

Eve.  {examining  him  curiously  while  Smooth  is  talking  to  Georgina  at 
L.  table).   And  that's  the  celebrated  Dudley  Smooth! 

Sir  J.  (r.  o.J.  More  commonly  called  Deadly  Smooth! — the  finest 
player  at  whist,  ecarte,  billiards,  chess,  and  picquet.  between  this  and 
the  Pyramids — the  sweetest  manners  ! — always  calls  you  by  your  Chris- 
tian name.     But  take  care  how  you  play  at  cards  with  him  ! 

Eve.  He  does  not  cheat,  I  suppose  ? 

Sir  J  Hist!  No! — but  he  always  wins!  He's  an  uncommonly 
clever  fellow  ! 

Eve.  Clever?  yes!  When  a  man  steals  a  loaf  we  cry  down  the 
knavery — when  a  man  diverts  his  neighbor's  mill-stream  to  grind  his 
own  corn,  we  cry  up  the  cleverness !  And  every  one  courts  Captain 
Dudley  Smooth  ? 

Sir  J.  Why,  who  could  offend  him  ? — the  best-bred,  civilest  creature 
— and  a  dead  shot !  There  is  not  a  cleverer  man  in  the  three  king- 
doms. 

Eve.  A  study — a  study  ! — let  me  examine  him  !  Such  men  are  living 
satires  on  the  world,  (rises.) 

Smooth  {passing  his  arm  caressingly  over  Sir  John's  shoulder).  My  dear 
John,  how  well  you  are  looking  !  A  new  lease  of  life!  Introduce  me 
to  Mr.  Evelyn. 

Eve.  Sir,  it's  an  honor  I've  long  ardently  desired,  (crossscs  to  him — 
tiny  bow  and  shake  hands.     Page  announces  Sir  Frederick  Blount.) 

Enter  Sir  Frederick  Blount,  c.  l. 

Blount.  How  d'ye  do,  Sir  John  ?  Ah,  Evelyn — I  wished  so  much  to 
ou.  (takes  Evelyn's  arm  and.  draws  him  towards  l.  c.) 

Eve.  'Tis  my  misfortune  to  be  visible  ! 

Blount.  A  little  this  way.  You  know,  perhaps,  that  I  once  paid  my 
pddwesses  to  Miss  Vesey  ;  but  since  that  vewy  eccentwic  will  Sir  John 
has  shuffled  me  off,  and  hints  at  a  pwior  attachment — (aside)  which  I 
know  to  be  false. 

EVa.  [seeing  Clara),  A  prior  attachment! — Ha!  Clara!  Well,  an- 
other time,  my  dear  Blount. 

Enter  Clara,  r.     She  seats  herself  L.  of  n.  tai.le. 


34  MONEY.  [ACT  II. 

Blount.  Stay  a  moment.  Why  are  you  in  such  a  howwid  huwwy  ! 
I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favor  with  regard  to  Miss  Douglas. 

Eve.  Miss  Douglas  ! 

Blount.  It  is  whispered  about  that  you  mean  to  pwopose  to  Geor- 
gina.     Nay,  Sir  John  more  than  hinted  that  was  her  pwior  attachment ! 

Eve.   Indeed  ! 

Blount.  Yes.  Now,  as  you  are  all  in  all  with  the  family,  if  you 
could  say  a  word  for  me  to  Miss  Douglas,  I  don't  see  what  harm  it  could 
do  me ! 

Eve.  :Sdeath,  man  !  speak  for  yourself  !  you  are  just  the  sort  of  man 
for  young  ladies  to  like — they  understand  you — you're  of  their  own 
level.     Pshaw  !  you're  too  modest — you  want  no  mediator  ! 

Blount.  My  dear  fellow,  you  flatter  me.  I'm  well  enough  in  my 
way.  But  you,  you  know,  would  cawwy  evewything  before  you — you're 
so  confoundedly  wich  ! 

Eve.  You  really  think  so,  and  you  wish  me  to  say  a  word  for  you 
to  Miss  Douglas  1  {he  takes  Blount's  arm  and  walks  htm  to  Clara) 
Miss  Douglas,  what  do  you  think  of  Sir  Frederick  Blount  1  Observe 
him.  He  is  well  dressed — young — tolerably  handsome — (Blount  bow- 
ing) bows  with  an  air — has  plenty  of  Smalltalk — everything  to  capti- 
vate. Yet  he  thinks  that,  if  he  and  I  were  suitors  to  the  same  lady,  I 
should  be  more  successful  because  I  am  richer.  What  say  you  1  Is 
love  an  auction  •' — and  do  women's  hearts  go  to  the  highest  bidder  1 

Clara.  Their  hearts — no! 

Eve.  But  their  hands — yes  !  {she  turns  away)  You  turn  away.  Ah, 
you  dare  not  answer  that  question !  (Blount  crosses  to  Clara,  Smooth 
and  Sits  John  go  up  the  stage  ;   Evelyn  goes  to  Georgina,  at  l.  table.) 

Blount.  I  wish  you  would  take  my  opewa-box  next  Saturday — 'tis 
the  best  in  the  house.  I'm  not  wich,  but  I  spend  what  I  have  on  myself. 
1  make  it  a  wule  to  have  everything  of  the  best  in  a  quiet  way.  Best 
opewa-box — best  dogs — best  horses — best  house  in  town  of  its  kind.  I 
want  nothing  to  complete  my  establishment  but  the  best  wife. 

Clara.  Oh,  that  will  come  in  time. 

Geor.  {aside}.  Sir  Frederick  flirting  with  Clara?  I'll  punish  him  for 
his  perfidy,  {aimed)  You  are  the  last  person  to  talk  so,  Mr.  Evelyn — you, 
whose  wealth  is  your  smallest  attraction — you,  whom  every  one  admires 
— so  witty,  such  taste,  such  talent !     Ah,  I'm  very  foolish. 

Sir  J.  {clapping  Evelyn  on  the  shoulder).  You  must  not  turn  my  little 
girl's  head.  Oh,  you're  a  sad  fellow  !  Apropos,  I  must  show  you 
Georgina's  last  drawings.  She's  wonderfully  improved  since  you  gave 
her  lessons  in  perspective. 

Geor.  No,  papa  !     No,  pray,  no  !     Nay,  don't! 

Sir  J.  Nonsense,  child — it's  very  odd,  but  she's  more  afraid  of  you 
than  of  any  one  !   (goes  to  the  folio  stand.) 

Smooth  {aside).  He's  an  excellent  father,  our  dear  John  !  and  sup- 
plies the  place  of  a  mother  to  her.   {lounges  off,  c.) 

Clara  {aisde).  So,  so — he  loves  her !  Misery — misery  !  But  he  shall 
not  perceive  it.  No,  no!  {aloud)  Ha,  ha!  Sir  Frederick — excellent! 
excellent!  You  are  so  entertaining.  (Sir  John  brings  a  portfolio  and 
places  it  on  the  table ;  Evelyn  and  Georgina  look  over  the  drawings  ;  Sir 
John  leans  over  them;  Sir  Frederick  converses  with  Clara  ;  Evelyn 
watching  them. ) 

Eve  Beautiful ! — a  view  from  Tivoli.  (Death — she  looks  down  vyhile 
he  speaks  to  her  !)  Is  there  a  little  fault  in  that  coloring"  (she  positively 
blushes)  But  this  Jupiter  is  superb.  (What  a  d — d  cocoxcomb  it  is?) 
{rising)  Oh,  she  certainly  loves  him — I  too,  can  be  loved  elsewhere — I, 
too,  can  see  smiles  and  blushes  on  the  face  of  another. 


ACT  II.]  MONEY.  35 

Geor.  Are  you  not  well  ?  {going  to  him,  l.  c.) 

Eve.  I  beg  pardon.  Yes  \  ou  are  indeed  improved.  Ah,  who  so 
accomplished  as  Miss  Vesey  1  (re  res  with  her  to  the  table ;  taking  up  a 
portrait)    Why,  what  is  this  1  —  my  own 

Geor.  You  must  not  look  at  tuat — you  must  not,  indeed.  I  did  not 
know  it  was  there. 

Sir  J.  Your  own  portrait,  Evelyn  !  Why,  child,  I  was  not  aware  you 
took  likenesses — that's  something  new.  Upon  my  word  it's  a  strong 
resemblance. 

Ghor.  Oh,  no — it  does  not  do  him  justice.  Give  it  to  me.  I  will 
tear  it.  (aside)  That  odious  Sir  Frederick  ! 

Eve.  Nay  you  shall  not.  (Clara  looks  at  him  reproachfully,  then  talks 
with  Sir  Frederick)  But  where  is  the  new  guitar  you  meant  to  buy, 
Miss  Vesey — the  one  inlaid  with  tortoise  shell  ?  It  it  nearly  a  year 
since  you  set  your  heart  on  it,  and  I  don't  see  it  yet. 

Sir  J.  (r.  c.|  taking  him  aside,  confidentially').  The  guitar — oh,  to  tell 
you  a  secret — she  applied  the  money  I  gave  her  for  it  to  a  case  of  char- 
ity several  months  ago — the  very  day  the  will  was  read.  I  saw  the  let- 
ter lying  on  the  table,  with  the  money  in  it.  Mind,  not  a  word  to  her— 
she'd  never  forgive  me. 

Eve.  Letter — money  !  What  was  the  name  of  the  person  she  relieved 
— not  .Stanton  ? 

Sir  J.  I  don't  remember,  indeed. 

Eve.  {taking  out  letter).  This  is  not  her  hand  ! 

Sir  J.  No !  I  observed  at  the  time  it  was  not  her  hand,  but  I  got  out 
from  her  that  she  did  not  wish  the  thing  to  be  known,  and  had  employed 
some  one  else  to  copy  it.  May  1  see  the  letter  1  Yes,  1  think  this  is 
the  wording.     Still,  how  did  she  know  Mrs.  Stanton's  address  1 

Eve.  I  gave  it  to  her,  Sir  John. 

Clara  (at  the  distance).  Yes,  I'll  go  to  the  opera,  if  Lady  Franklin 
will — on  Saturday,  then,  Sir  Frederick.  (Blount  bows  to  Clara  and 
goes  off,  c.  l.  ) 

Eve.  Sir  John,  to  a  man  like  me,  this  simple  act  of  unostentatious 
generosity  is  worth  all  the  accomplishments  in  the  world.  A  good  heart 
— a  tender  disposition — a  charity  that  shuns  the  day — a  modesty  that 
blushes  at  its  own  excellence — an  impulse  towards  something  more  di- 
vine than  Mammon  ;  such  are  the  true  accomplishments  which  preserve 
beauty  for  ever  young.  Such  I  have  sought  in  the  partner  I  would  take 
for  life — such  have  I  found — alas  !  not  where  I  had  dreamed  !  Miss 
Vesey,  I  will  be  honest.  (Miss  Vesf.y  advances,  l.  u.)  I  say  then,  frankly 
— {raising  his  voice,  as  Clara  approaches,  and  looking  fixedly  at  her) — I  have 
loved  another — deeply — truly— bitterly — vainly !  I  cannot  offer  to  you, 
as  I  did  to  her.  the  fair  first  love  of  the  liiim<in  heart — rich  with  all  its 
blossoms  and  its  verdure.  But  if  esteem — if  gratitude — if  an  earliest  re- 
solve to  conquer  every  recollection  that  would  wander  from  your  image: 
if  these  can  tempt  you  to  accept  my  hand  and  fortune,  my  life  shall  be 
a  study  to  deserve  your  confidence,  (daring  this  speech  Gkorgixa  has 
advanced,  l.,  Clara  to  a  chair  B.  of  l.  table  ;  Clara  sits  motionless,  clasping 
her  hands.) 

Sir  J.  The  happiest  day  of  my  life.  (Clara/aM*  hack  in  her  chair.) 

Eve.  (darting  forward,  aside).  She  is  pale  ;  she  faints.  What  have  I 
donel     Oh,  Heaven!  (aloud)  Clara! 

Clara  (rising  with  a  smile).  Be  happy,  my  cousin — be  happy  !  Yes, 
with  my  whole  heart  I  say  it — be  happy,  Alfred  Evelyn  !  (she  sinks  again 
into  the  chair,  overcome  by  emotion  ;  the  rest  form  a  picture  of  consternation 
and  selfish  joy.) 

CURTAIN. 


36  MONET,  [ACT  III. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I. — The  drawing-rooms  in  Sir  Johx  Vesey's  house,  as  before.    The 
furniture  arranged  for  the  change  to  the  next  scene. 

Sir  Jjhn  rt«r£  Georgina  discovered,  c. 

Sir  J.  And  he  has  not  presse  1  you  to  fix  the  wedding-day  1 

Geor  No  ;  and  since  he  proposed  lie  comes  here  so  seldom,  and 
seems  so  gloomy.  Heigho!  Poor  Sir  Frederick  was  twenty  times  more 
amusing. 

Sir  J.  But  Evelyn  is  fifty  times  as  rich. 

Geor.  But  do  you  not  fear  lest  he  discover  that  Clara  wrote  the  let- 
ter ? 

Slit  J.  No  ;  and  I  shall  get  Clara  out  of  the  house.  But  there  is  some- 
thing else  that  makes  me  very  uneasy.  You  know  that  no  sooner  did 
Evelyn  come  into  possession  of  his  fortune  than  he  launched  out  in  the 
style  of  a  prince.  His  house  in  London  is  a  palace,  and  he  has  bought 
a  great  estate  in  the  country.  Look  how  he  lives.  Balls  — banquets — 
fine  arts — fiddlers — charities — and  the  devil  to  pay  ! 

Geor.  But  if  he  can  afford  it . 

Sir  J.  Oh  !  so  long  as  he  stopped  there  I  had  no  apprehension  ;  but 
since  he  proposed  for  you  he  is  more  extravagant  than  ever.  They  say 
he  has  taken  to  gambling ;  and  he  is  always  with  Captain  Smooth.  No 
fortune  can  stand  Deadly  Smooth  !  If  he  gets  into  a  scrape  he  may  fall 
off  from  the  settlements.     We  must  press  the  marriage  at  once. 

Geor.  Heigho  !  Poor  Frederick  !  You  don't  think  lie  is  reallg  attach- 
ed to  Clara  ? 

Sir  J.  Upon  my  word  I  can't  say.  Put  on  your  bonnet,  and  come  to 
Storr  and  Mortimer's  to  choose  the  jewels. 

Geor.  The  jewels — yes — the  drive  will  do  me  good. 

Sir  J.  Tell  Clara  to  come  to  me.  {exit  Georgina,  r.)  Yes.  I  must 
press  on  this  marriage.  Georgina  has  not  wit  enough  to  manage  him — 
at  least  till  he's  her  husband,  and  then  all  women  find  it  smooth  sailing. 
This  match  will  make  ine  a  man  of  prodigious  importance  !  I  suspect 
he'll  give  me  up  her  ten  thousand  pounds.  I  can't  think  of  Ins  taking 
to  gambling,  for  I  love  him  as  a  son — and  I  look  on  his  money  as  my 
own. 

Enter  Clara,  r. 

Sir  J.  Clara,  my  love  ! 

Clara.  Sir 

Sib  J.  My  dear,  what  I  am  going  to  say  may  appear  a  little  rude  and 
unkind,  but  you  know  my  character  is  frankness.  To  the  point  then  ; 
my  poor  child,  I  am  aware  of  your  attachment  to  Mr.  Evelyn 

Clara.  Sir  !  my  attachment  ? 

Sir  J.  It  is  generally  remarked.  Lady  Kind  says  you  are  falling 
away.  My  poor  girl,  1  pity  you — I  do,  indeed.  (Clara  weeps)  My  dear 
Clara,  don't  take  on  so;  1  would  not  have  said  this  for  the  world,  if  I 
was  not  a  little  anxious  about  my  own  girl.  Georgina  is  so  unhappy  at 
what  every  one  says  of  your  attachment 

Clara.  Every  one  1     Oh,  torture  ! 

Sir  J.  That  it  preys  on  her  spirits — it  even  irritates  her  temper!  In 
a  word,  I  fear  these  little  jealousies  and  suspicions  will  tend  to  embitter 
their  future  union.     I'm  a  father — forgive  me. 

Clara.  What  would  you  have  me  do,  sir  1 

Sir  J.  Why,  you're  now  independent.     Lady  Frauklin  seems  resolved 


ACT  III.]  MONEY.  o7 

to  stay  in  town.  You  are  your  own  mistress.  Mrs.  Carlton,  aunt  to  my 
late  wife,  is  going  abroad  for  a  short  time,  and  would  be  delighted  if  you 
would  accompany  her. 

Clara.  It  is  the  very  favor  I  would  have  asked  of  you.  (aside)  I  shall 
escapa  at  least  the  struggle  and  the  shame,   {aloud)  When  does  she  go  ] 

Sir  J.  In  five  days — next  Monday. — You  forgive  me  ? 

Clara.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Sir  J.  Suppose,  then,  you  write  a  line  to  her  yourself,  and  settle  it  at 
once  1 

Takes  Clara  to  table,  l.,  as  the  Page  enters  c.  l. 

Page.  The  carriage,  Sir  John  ;  Miss  Vesey  is  quite  ready. 

Sir  J.  Very  well,  James.  If  Mr.  Serious,  the  clergyman,  c.tlls,  say 
I'm  gone  to  the  great  meeting  at  Exeter  Hall;  if  Lord  Spruce  calls,  say 
you  believe  I'm  gone  to  the  rehearsal  of  Cinderella.  Oh  !  and  if  Mac- 
Finch  should  come  (MacFinch  who  duns  me  three  times  a  week),  say 
I've  hurried  off  to  Garraway's  to  bid  for  the  great  Bulstrode  estate. 
Just  put  the  Duke  of  Lofty's  card  carelessly  on  the  hall  table,  (exit  Ser- 
vant, r.  c.)  One  must  have  a  little  management  in  this  world.  All  hum- 
bug ! — all  humbug,  upon  my  soul !  [Exit,  C.  l. 

Clara  (folding  the  letter).  There,  it  is  decided !  A  few  days,  and  we 
are  parted  for  ever  ! — a  few  weeks,  and  another  will  bear  his  name — his 
wife!  Oh,  happy  fate  !  She  will  have  the  right  to  sayT  to  him — though 
the  whole  world  should  hear  her — "  I  am  thine!"  And  I  embitter  their 
lot !  And  yet,  0  Alfred !  if  she  loves  thee — if  she  knows  thee — if  she 
values  thee — and,  when  thou  wrong'st  her,  if  she  can  forgive,  as  I  do — I 
can  bless  her  when  far  away,  and  join  her  name  in  my  prayer  for  thee  ! 

Eve.  (without).  Miss  Vesey  just  gone!     Well,  I  will  write  a  line. 

Enter  Evelyx,  c.  l..  preceded  by  Page,  who  exits  immediately,  c.  l. 

Eve.  (aside).  So — Clara !  (she  rises,  crosses  to  r.)  Do  not  let  me  disturb 
you,  Miss  Douglas. 

Clara  [going,  r.).   Nay,  I  have  done. 

Eve.  I  see  that  my  presence  is  always  odious  to  you  ;  it  is  a  reason 
why  I  come  so  seldom.  But  be  cheered,  madam  ;  I  am  here  but  to  fix 
the  day  of  my  marriage,  and  1  shall  then  go  into  the  country — till — till 
— In  short,  this  is  the  last  time  my  visit  will  banish  you  from  the  room 
I  enter,  (he  places  his  hat  on  table,  l.) 

Clara  (aside).  The  last  time  ! — and  we  shall  then  meet  no  more  ! 
And  to  thus  part  forever — in  scorn — in  anger — I  cannot  bear  it !  («p- 
proaches  htm)  Alfred,  my  cousin,  it  is  true,  this  may  he  the  last  time  we 
shall  meet — I  have  made  my  arrangements  to  quit  England. 

Eve.  To  quit  England  ?  (comes forward,  l  ) 

Clara.  But  before  I  go  let  mo  thank  you  for  many  a  past  kindness, 
which  it  is  not  for  an  orphan  easily  to  forget. 

Eve    (mechanically).  To  quit  England  I 

Clara  Yes,  and  now  that  you  are  betrothed  to  another — now,  with- 
out recurring  to  the  past — something  of  our  old  friendship  may  at  least 
return  to  us  And  if.  too,  I  dared,  I  have  that  on  my  mind  which  only 
a  friend — a  sister — might  presume  to  say  to  you. 

Eve.  (moved  .  Miss  Douglas — Clara — if  there  is  aught  that  I  could  do 
— if,  while  hundreds — strangers — beggars  tell  me  that  I  have  the  power, 
by  opening  or  shutting  this  worthless  hand,  to  bid  sorrow  rejoice,  or 
poverty  despair — if — if  my  life — my  heart's  blood — could  render  to  yoa 
one  such  service  as  my  gold  can  give  to  others — why,  speak  ! — and  the 
past  you  allude  to — yes,  even  that  bitter  past — I  will  cancel  and  forget. 


88  MONET.  [AC!  III. 

Clara  {holding  out  her  hand).  We  are  friends,  then!  (Evelyn  takes 
her  hand)  You  are  again  my  cousin  ! — ray  brother  ! 
Eve.  {dropping  her  hand).  Brother!  Ah!  say  on  ! 
Clara  1  speak,  then,  as  a  sister — herself  weak,  inexperienced — might 
speak  to  a  brother,  in  whose  career  she  felt  the  ambition  of  a  man.  Oil! 
Evelyn,  when  you  inherited  this  vast  wealth  I  pleased  myself  with  imag- 
ining how  you  would  wield  the  power  delegated  to  your  hands.  I  knew 
your  benevolence — your  intellect — your  genius  !  I  saw  before  me  the 
noble  and  bright  career  open  to  you  at  last — and  I  often  thought  that, 
in  after  years,  when"" far  away — as  I  soon  shall  be — I  should  hear  your 
name  identified,  not  with  what  fortune  can  give  the  base,  but  with  deeds 
and  ends  to  which,  for  the  great,  fortune  is  but  the  instrument ; — I  often 
thought  that  I  should  say  to  my  own  heart— weeping  proud  and  deli- 
cious tears — "  And  once  this  man  loved  me  !" 

Eve    No  more,  Clara  ! — Oh,  heavens  ! — no  more! 

Clara.  But  has  it  been  so  '—have  you  been  true  to  your  own  self  ? — 
Pomp — parade — luxuries — pleasures — follies! — all  these  might  distin- 
guish others — they  do  but  belie  the  ambition  and  the  soul  of  Alfred 
Evelyn.  Oh  !  pardon  me — I  am  too  bold — I  pain — I  offend  you. — Ah  !  I 
should  not  have  dared  thus  much  had  I  not  thought  at  times,  that — 
that 

Evrc.  That  these  follies — these  vanities — this  dalliance  with  a  loftier 
fate  were  your  own  work  !  You  thought  that,  and  you  were  right  ! 
Perhaps,  indeed,  after  a  youth,  steeped  to  the  lips  in  the  hyssop  and  gall 
of  penury — perhaps  I  might  have  wished  royally  to  know  the  full  value 
of  that  dazzling  and  starry  life  which,  from  the  last  step  in  the  ladder,  I 
had  seen  indignantly  and  from  afar.  But  a  month — a  week,  would  have 
sufficed  for  that  experience.  Experience  !— Oh,  how  soon  we  learn  that 
hearts  are  as  cold  and  souls  as  vile — no  matter  whether  the  sun  shine  on 
the  noble  in  his  palace,  or  the  rain  drench  the  rags  of  the  beggar  cower- 
ing at  the  porch.  But  you — did  not  you  reject  me  because  I  was  poor  ? 
Despise  me,  if  you  please  ! — my  revenge  might  be  unworthy — I  wished 
to  show  you  the  luxuries,  the  gaud,  the  splendor  I  thought  you  p:  ized — 
to  surround  with  the  attributes  your  sex  seems  most  to  value — the  sta- 
tion that,  had  you  loved  me,  it  would  have  been  yours  to  command. 
But  vain — vain  alike  my  poverty  and  my  wealth !  You  loved  me  not  in 
either,  and  my  fate  is  sealed! 

Clara.  A  happy  fate,  Evelyn! — you  love! 

Evk.  And  at  last  I  am  beloved,  {after  a  pause,  and  turning  to  her 
abruptly)  Do  yon  doubt  it  ? 

Clara.  No,  1  believe  it  firmly  ! — And,  now  that  there  is  nothing  un- 
kind between  us — not  even  regret — and  surely  {with  a  smile)  not  re- 
venge, my  cousin,  you  will  rise  to  your  nobler  self ! — and  so,  farewell ! 
{going,  r  ) 

Eve.  No  ;  stay,  one  moment ; — you  still  feel  interest  in  my  fate  1 
Have  I  been  deceived  1  Oh,  why — why  did  you  spurn  the  heart  whose 
offerings  were  lavished  at  your  feet?  Could  you  still — still 1  Dis- 
traction— I  know  not  what  I  say  ; — my  honor  pledged  to  another — my 
vows  accepted  and  returned  !  Go,  Clara,  it  is  best  so  !  Yet  you  will 
miss  some  one,  perhaps,  more  than  me — some  one  to  whose  follies  you 
have  been  more  indulgent — some  one  to  whom  you  would  permit  a  yet 
tenderer  name  than  that  of  brother!  (goes  to  table,  l.) 

Clara  {aside).  It  will  make  him,  perhaps,  happier  to  think  it  !  (aloud) 
Think  so,  if  you  will ! — but  part  friends. 

Eve.  Friends — and  that  is  all  !  Look  you — this  is  life !  The  eyes 
that  charmed  away  every  sorrow — the  hand  whose  lightest  touch  thrill- 
ed to  the  very  core — the  voice  that,  heard   afar,  filled  space  as  with  an 


ACT  III.]  MONET.  39 

angel's  music — a  year — a  month,  a  day,  and  we  smile  that  we  could 
dream  so  idly.  All — all — the  sweetest  enchantment,  known  hut  once, 
never  to  return  again,  vanished  from  the  world  !  And  the  one  who  for- 
gets the  soonest — the  one  who  robs  your  earth  for  ever  of  its  sunshine — ■ 
comes  to  you  with  a  careless  lip,  and  says — "  Let  us  part  friends  !" — 
Go,  Ciara — go — and  be  happy  if  you  can  !  (falls  into  a  chair  at  l.  table.) 

Clara  {weeping).  Cruel — cruel — to  the  last  !  [Exit,  r. 

Eve.  (rises).  Soft !  let  me  recall  her  words,  her  tones,  her  looks. — 
Does  she  love  me  ?  There  is  a  voice  at  my  heart  which  tells  me  I  have 
been  the  rash  slave  of  a  jealous  anger.  But  I  have  made  my  choice — I 
must  abide  the  issue,  (retires  and  sits  at  r.  table.) 

Enter  Graves,  preceded  by  Page,  l.  c. 

Page.  Lady  Franklin  is  dressing,  sir. 

Graves.  Well,  I'll  wait,  {exit  Page,  r.)  She  was  worthy  to  have 
known  the  lost  Maria!  So  considerate  to  ask  me  hither — not  to  console 
me,  that  is  impossible — but  to  indulge  the  luxury  of  woe.  It  will  be  a 
mournful  scene,  (seeing  Evelyn)  Is  that  you,  Evelyn"?  I  have  just 
heard  that  the  borough  of  Broginhole  is  vacant  at  last.  Why  not  stand 
yourself — with  your  property  you  might  come  in  without  even  a  per- 
sonal canvass. 

Eve.  I,  who  despise  these  contests  for  the  color  of  a  straw,  (aside)  And 
yet.  Claia  spoke  of  ambition.  She  would  regret  me  if  1  could  be  distin- 
guished, (rises,  aloud )  You  are  right,  Graves,  to  be  sure,  after  all.  An 
Englishman  owes  something  to  his  country. 

Graves  (l.).  He  does,  indeed,  (counting  on  his  fingers)  East  winds, 
Fogs,  Rheumatism.  Pulmonary  Complaints,  and  Taxes.  (Evelyn  walks 
about  in  disorder)  Oh  !  you  are  a  pretty  fellow.  One  morning  you  tell 
me  you  love  Clara,  or  at  least  detest  her,  which  is  the  same  tiling  (poor 
Maria  often  said  she  detested  me),  and  that  very  afternoon  you  propose 
to  Georgina. 

Eve.  Clara  will  easily  console  herself — thanks  to  Sir  Frederick  ! 

Graves.  Nevertheless,  Clara  has  had  the  bad  taste  to  refuse  an  offer 
from  Sir  Frederick.  I  have  it  from  Lady  Franklin,  to  whom  he  con- 
fided his  despair  in  re-arranging  his  neck-cloth. 

Eve.  My  dear  friend — is  it  possible  ? 

Guaves.  But  what  then?  You  must  marry  Georgina,  who,  to  believe 
Lady  Franklin,  is  sincerely  attached  to — your  fortune.  Go  and  hang 
yourself,  Evelyn ;  you  have  been  duped  by  them. 

Eve.  By  them — bah  !  If  deceived,  I  have  been  my  own  dupe.  Is  it 
not  a  strange  thing  that  in  matters  of  reason— of  the  arithmetic  and 
logic  of  life — we  are  sensible,  shrewd,  prudent  men ;  but  touch  our 
hearts — move  our  passions — take  us  for  an  instant  from  the  hard  safety 
of  worldly  calculation — and  the  philosopher  is  duller  than  the  fool1? 
(crosses,  l.)  Duped — if  I  thought  it — but  Georgina  ? 

Graves.  Plays  affection  to  you  in  the  afternoon,  after  practising  with 
Sir  Frederick  in  the  morning. 

Eve.  On  your  life,  sir,  be  serious  ;  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Graves.  That  in  passing  this  way  I  see  her  very  often  walking  in  the 
square  with  Sir  Frederick. 

Eve.  Ha!  say  you  so? 

Graves.  What  then?  Man  is  horn  to  be  deceived.  You  look  ner- 
vous— your  hand  trembles;  that  comes  of  gaming.  They  say  at  the 
clubs  that  you  play  deeply. 

Eve.  Ha!  ha!  Do  they  say  that?  a  few  hundreds  lost  or  won — a 
cheap  opiate — anything  that  can  lay  the  memory  to  sleep.     The  poor 


40  MONEY.  [,VCT  III. 

man  drinks,  and  the  rich  man  gamblers — the  same  motive  to  both.  But 
you  are  right — it  is  a  base  resource — I  will  play  no  more. 

Graves.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  for  your  friend  Captain  Smooth 
lias  ruined  half  the  young  heirs  in  London.  Even  Sir  John  is  alarmed. 
I  met  him  just  now  in  Pall  Mall.  By-lhe-bye,  I  forgot — do  you  bank 
with  Flash,  Brisk,  Credit  and  Co.  1 

Eve.  So,  Sir  John  is  alarmed,  (aside)  Guile  1  by  this  coding  charla- 
tan ?  Aha !  I  may  beat  him  yet  at  his  own  weapons,  [aloud)  Humph  ! 
Bank  with  Flash  !     Why  do  you  ask  rael 

Graves.  Because  Sir  John  has  just  heard  that  they  are  in  a  very  bad 
way,  and  begs  you  to  withdraw  anything  you  have  in  their  hands. 

Eve.   I'll  see  to  it.     So  Sir  John  is  alarmed  at  my  gambling '! 

(jraves.  Terribly !  He  even  told  me  he  should  go  himself  to  the 
club  this  evening,  to  watch  you. 

Eve.  To  watcii  me — good — I  will  be  there  ! 

Graves.  But  you  will  promise  not  to  play  1 

Eve.  Yes — to  play.     1  feel  it  is  impossible  to  give  it  up. 

Gkaves.  No — no !  'Sdeath,  man !  be  as  wretched  as  you  please  ; 
break  your  heart,  that's  nothing  !  but  damme,  take  care  of  your  pockets. 

Eve.  Hark  ye.  Graves — if  you  are  right,  1  will  extricate  myself  yet. 
The  duper  shall  be  duped,  in  the  next  twenty-four  hours.  I  may  win 
back  the  happiness  of  a  life.     Oh  !  if  this  scheme,  do  but  succeed  ! 

Graves.  Scheme!  What  scheme?  (Evelyn  takes  his  hat  from  l. 
table.) 

Eve.  Yes,  I  will  be  there — I  will  play  with  Captain  Smooth — I  wiil 
lose  as  much  as  I  please — thousands — millions — billions  ;  and  if  he  pre- 
sume to  spy  on  my  losses,  hang  me,  if  I  don't  lose  Sir  John  himself  into 
the  bargain  !  [going  out  and  returning)  I  am  so  absent.  What  was  the 
bank  you  mentioned  1  Flash,  Brisk  and  Credit  !  B'ess  me,  how  un- 
lucky !  and  it's  too  late  to  draw  out  to-day.  Tell  Sir  John  I'm  very 
much  obliged  to  him,  and  he'll  find  me  at  the  club  any  time  before  day- 
break, hard  at  work  with  my  friend  Smooth.  [Exit,  c.  l. 

Guaves.  He's  certainly  ::razy  !  but  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  What  the 
approach  of  the  dog-days  is  to  the  canine  species,  the  approach  of  the 
honeymoon  is  to  the  human  race. 

Enter  Servant,  r. 

Ser.  Lady  Franklin's  compliments — she  will  see  you  in  the  boudoir, 
sir. 

Graves.  In  the  boudoir  ! — go — go — I'll  come  directly,  (exit  Servant, 
r.)  My  heartbeats — it  must  be  for  grief.  Poor  Maria!  (searching  his 
pockets  for  his  handkerchief)  Not  a  white  one — just  like  my  luck  ;  I  call 
on  a  lady  to  talk  of  the  dear  departed,  and  I've  nothing  about  me  but  a 
cursed  gaudy,  flaunting,  red,  yellow  and'  blue  abomination  from  India, 
which  it's  even  indecent  for  a  disconsolate  widower  to  exhibit.  Ah  ! 
Fortune  never  ceases*  to  torment  the  susceptible.  The  boudoir — ha — ha  ! 
the  boudoir  !  [Exit,  k. 

SCENE  II. — A  boudoir  in  the  same  home.     Two  chairs  brought   on  by  a 
Page,  who  goes  off,  l. 

Enter  Lady  Franklin,  l. 

Lady  F.  What  if  my  little  plot  does  not  succeed  1  The  man  insists 
on  being  wretched,  and  I  pity  him  so  much  that  I  am   determined   to 


ACT  III.]  MONET.  41 

make  him    happy  !     Ha  !    ha  !    ha  !     He   shall  laugh,  he  shall  sing,  he 
shall  dance,  he  shall — [compotes  herself)  Here  he  conies  ! 

Enter  Graves,  r. 

Graves  {sighing).  Ah,  Lady  Franklin  ! 

Lady  F.  .sighing).  Ah.  Mr.  Graves  !  [they  seat  themselves)  Pray  excuse 
me  for  having  kept  you  so  long.     Is  it  not  a  charming  day  ] 

Graves.  An  east  wind,  ma'am  !  hut  nothing  conies  amiss  to  you — 'tis 
a  happy  disposition  !     Poor  Maria  !  the,  too,  was  naturally  gay. 

Lady  F.  Yes,  she  was  gay.     So  much  life,  and  a  great  deal  of  spirit. 

Gravks.  Spirit-?  Yes — nothing  could  master  it !  She  would  have 
her  own  way.     Ah !  there  was  nobody  like  her  ! 

Lady  F.  And  then,  when  her  spirit  was  up,  she  looked  so  handsome ! 
Her  eyes  grew  so  brilliant ! 

Graves.  Did  not  they? — Ah!  ah!  ha!  ha!  ha!  And  do  you  re- 
member her  pretty  trick  of  stamping  her  foot  1 — the  tiniest  little  foot — 
1  think  I  see  her  now.     Ah  !   this  conversation  is  very  soothing ! 

Lady  F.  How  well  she  acted  in  your  private  theatricals  ! 

Gkaves.  You  remember  her  Mrs.  Oakley,  in  "  The  Jealous  Wife  V 
Ha!  ha!  how  good  it  was! — ha!  ha! 

Lady  F.  Ha  !  ha  !  Yes,  in  the  very  first  scene,  when  she  came  out 
with  [mimicking)  "  Your  unkindness  and  barbarity  will  be  the  death  of 
me !"  • 

Gijaves.  No — no!  that's  not  it!  more  energy,  (mimicking)  "  Your 
unkindness  and  barbarity  will  be  the  death  of  me  !"  Ha  !  ha  !  I  ought 
to  know  how  she  said  it,  for  she  used  to  practice  it  on  me  twice  a  day. 
Ah!  poor  dear  lamb  !  (wipes  his  eyes.) 

Lady  F.  And  then  she  sang  so  well !  was  such  a  composer !  What 
was  that  little  air  she  was  so  fond  of  ? 

Graves.  Ha  !  ha  !  sprightly,  was  it  not  ]     Let  me  see — let  me  see. 

Lady  F.   [humming).  Turn  ti — ti  turn — ti — ti  — ti.     No.  that's  not  it! 

Ghaves   (humming).  Turn  ti — ti — turn  ti— ti — turn — turn— turn. 

Both.  Tuni  ti — ti — turn  ti — ti — turn — turn — turn.     Ha  !  ha  ! 

Graves  (throwing  himself  back).  Ah!  what  recollection  it  revives  !  It 
is  too  affecting. 

Lady  F.  It  is  affecting ;  but  we  are  all  mortal,  (sighs)  And  at  your 
Christmas  party  at  Cyprus  Lodge,  do  you  remember  her  dancing  the 
Scotch  reel  with  Captain  MacNaughten  ? 

Gravrs.  Ha!  ha!  ha!     To  be  sure — to  be  sure. 

Lady  F.  Can  you  think  of  the  step  ^ — somehow  thus,  was  it  not"? 
(dancing.) 

Graves.  No — no — quite  wrong! — just  stand  there.  Now  then — 
(humming  the  tune)  La — la-la-la — La-la,  etc.  (they  dance)  That's  it — ex- 
cellent— admirable ! 

Lady  F.  (aside).  Now  'tis  coming. 

Enter  Siu  John,   Blount,  Georgina,   r.      They  stand  amazed.      Lady 
Franklin  continues  dancing. 

Graves.  Bewitching — irresistible  !  'Tis  Maria  herself  that  I  see  be- 
fore me!     Thus — thus — let  me  clasp Oh,  the  devil!     Just  like  my 

luck  !  (stopping  opposi'e  Sir  John.     Lady  Franklin  runs  off,  l.) 

Sir  J.  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Graves  ! 

Geok.  and  Blount.  Encore — encore!     Bravo — bravo  I 

Graves.  It's  all  a  mistake!     I — I — Sir  John.     Lady  Franklin,  you 


42  MONEY.  [ACT  III. 

see — that  is  to  say — I Sainted  Maria  !  you  are  spared,  at  least,  this 

affliction  !  [Runs  off,  r. 

Sir  John,  Georgina,  and  Blount  follow.     Page  lakes  off  the  chairs,  l. 

SCENE  III.— The  interior  of*  *  *  * 's  Club;  night ;  lights,  etc.,  etc.* 

Noise  of  conversation  before  the  act-drop  rises — murmurs  as  it  ascends. 

Gloss.  You  don't  often  come  to  the  Club,  Stout  1 

Stout.  No  ;  time  is  money.  An  hour  spent  at  a  club  is  unproductive 
capital. 

Old  Member  [reading  the  newspaper).  Waiter  !  the  snuff-box.  (Waiter 
brings  a  large  round  box  on  a  salver.) 

Gloss.  So,  Evelyn  has  taken  to  play  ?  I  see  Deadly  Smooth,  "hush- 
ed in  grim  repose,  awaits  his  evening  prey."  Deep  work  to-night,  I 
suspect,  for  Smooth  is  drinking  lemonade — keeps  his  head  clear — mon- 
strous clever  do™ !  (murmurs  as  before ;  Stout  takes  the  snuff-box  from 
Old  Member's  table  ;  Old  Member  looks  at  him  savagely.) 

Enter  Evelyn  ;  salutes  and  shakes  hands  with  different  Members  in  passing 
up  the  stage  ;  places  his  hat  on  table,  c. 

Eve.  Ha,  Flat,  how  well  you  are  looking  ! — Green,  how  do  you  do  1 
How  d'ye  do,  Glossmore '.'  *How  are  you,  Stout  ?  you  don't  play,  I 
think?  Political  Economy  never  plays  at  cards,  eh  ? — never  has  time 
for  anything  more  frivolous  than  Rents  and  Profits,  Wa»es  and  Labor, 
High  Prices,  and  Low — Corn-Laws,  Poor-Laws,  Tithes,  Currency, — Dot- 
and-go-one — Rates,  Puzzles,  Taxes,  Riddles,  and  Botheration  !  Smooth 
is  the  man.  Aha!  Smooth.  Piquet,  eh  1  You  owe  me  my  revenge ! 
(sits  to  play,  l.  of  r.  table  ;  Members  touch  each  other  significantly.) 
Smooth.  My  dear  Alfred,  anything  to  oblige,  (murmurs.) 
Old  M  p.m.  Waiter!  the  snuff-box.  (Waiter  takes  it  from  Stout  and 
brings  it  back  to  Old  Member.  Two  Members  from  the  top,  l.,  come  clown 
and  cross  behind  to  Member  r.  of  centre  table,  ivhispcr  to  him  and  go  off,  c. 
Waiter  brings  coffee  to  Member  behind  the  Old  Member,  and  then  takes 
away  two  coffee  cups  from  Lord  Glossmore  and  Member,  r.  c.  ,  Another 
Waiter  brings  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water  to  Old  Member.  Having  made 
the  cards,  Smooth  deals.) 

Enter  Blount,  c.  ;  he  goes  to  Evelyn's  table,  and  stands  in  front  of  it  for  a 

moment. 

Blount.  So!     Evelyn  at  it  again — eh,  Glossmore"? 
Gloss.  Yes ;  Smooth  sticks  to  him  like  a  leech.     Clever  fellow,  that 
Smooth,  (murmurs.     Smooth  and  Evelyn  play.) 
Smooth.  Your  point  1 
Eve.  Five! 

Smooth.  Not  good.     Six — sequence — five  ! 
Eve.  Good  1 
Smooth.  Three  aces. 

Eve.  Good !  (they  continue  playing  ;  Evelyn  deals.) 
Blount.  Will  you  make  up  a  wubber  1 
Gloss.  Have  you  got  two  others! 
Blount.  Yes  ;  Flat  and  Green. 

*  For  full  disposition  of  this  scene  and  characters  a3  discovered,  see  the  Synopsis 
of  Scenery,  page  3. 


ACT  III.]  MONEY.  43 

Gloss.  Bad  players. 

Blount.  I  make  it  a  wule  to  play  with  bad  players  ;  it  is  five  per 
cent,  in  one's  favor  I  hate  gambling.  But  a  quiet  wubber,  if  one  is  the 
best  player  out  of  four,  can't  do  any  harm 

Gloss.  Clever  fellow,  that  Blount,  (murmurs.  Blount  takes  up  the 
snuff-box  and  walks  off  with  it;  Old  Member  looks  at  him  savagely.  Waiter 
fetches  coffee-cup  from  Member,  l.) 

Enter  a  Member  reading  f  long  le  ter  ;  sits,  c.  table.    Blount,  Glossmore, 
Flat,  and  Green,  make  up  a  table  at  the  bottom  of  the  stage,  r. 

Smooth.  A  thousand  pardons,  my  dear  Alfred — ninety  repique — ten 
cards — game  ! 

Eve.  (  passing  a  note  to  him).  Game  !  Before  we  go  on,  one  question. 
This  is  Thursday — how  much  do  you  calculate  to  win  of  me  before 
Tuesday  next? 

Smooth.  Ce  chcr  Alfred !     He  is  so  droll ! 

Eve.  {ivrittng  in  his  pocket-book).  Forty  games  a  night — four  nights, 
minus  Sunday — our  usual   stakes — that  would  be  right,  I  think. 

Smooth  {glancing  over  the  account).  Quite  — if  I  win  all — which  is  next 
to  impossible. 

Eve.  It  shall  be  possible  to  win  twice  as  much,  on  one  condition. 
Can  you  keep  a  secret  ? 

Smooth.  My  dear  Alfred,  I  have  kept  myself!  I  never  inheriti-d  a 
farthing — I  never  spent  less  than  £4,000  a  year — and  I  never  told  a  soul 
how  I  managed  it. 

Eve.  Hark  ye,  then — it  is  a  matter  to  me  of  vast  importance — a  word 
with  you.   {they  ivhisper.) 

Old  Mem.  Waiter !  the  snuff-box.  (Waiter  takes  it  from  Blount,  etc. 
Murmurs.) 

Enter  Sir  John,  c. 

Eve.  You  understand  ? 

Smooth.  Perfectly  ;  anything  to  oblige. 

Eve    {cutting).  It  is  for  you  to  deal,  {murmurs.     They  go  on  playing.) 

Waiter  comes  en  with  a  note,  on  salver,  and  offers  it  to  o*ie  of  the  Members, 
who  is  looking  on  at  the  whist-table  :  he  scribbles  an  answer,  at  c.  table, 
and  sends  the  Waiter  off  with  it. 

Sir  J.  There  is  my  precious  son-in-law,  that  is  to  be,  spending  my 
consequence,  and  making  a  fool  of  himself,  {takes  up  snuff-lwx ;  Old 
Member  looks  at  him.) 

Eve    {playing).  Six  to  the  point. 

Smooth.  Good ! 

Eve.  Three  queens. 

Smooth  Not  good— T  have  three  kings  and  three  knaves !  {they  deal 
out  the  cards  until  Sir  John  speaks.) 

Blount  {rising  from  the  table  ;  another  Member  takes  his  place).  I'm  out. 
Flat,  a  pony  on  the  odd  twick.  {takes  the  money)  That's  wiuht.  {comes 
down,  r.  c,  counting  money)  Weil,  Sir  John,  you  don't  play  ! 

Sir  J.  Play?  nol  {looking  over  Evelyn's  hand)  Confound  him— lost 
again ! 

Eve.  Hang  the  cards! — double  the  stakes  1 

Smooth.  Anything  to  oblige — done  ! 

Sir  J.  Done,  indeed  ! 

Old  Mem.  Waiter!  the  snuff-box.  (Waiter  takes  it  from  Sir  John  ) 

Blount.  I've  won  eight   points  and  the  bets— I  never  lose — I  never 


4t  MOSEY.  [ACT  III. 

play  in  the  Deadly  Smooth  set!  {takes  up  the  snuff-box  ;  Old  Member  as 
before. ) 

Sir  J.  (looking  over  Smooth's  hand,  and  fidgeting  backwards  and  forwards). 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us  !  Smooth  has  seven  for  his  point !  What's  the 
stakes  1 

Eve  Don't  disturb  us— I  only  throw  out  four.  Stakes,  Sir  John  ? — • 
immense  !  Was  ever  such  luck  ? — not  a  card  for  my  point.  Do  stand 
back,  Sir  John — I'm  getting  irritable,  {all  rise  and  gather  round  Evelyn' s 
table  ;  several  in  front,  so  as  to  hide  the  playing  fnsnn  the  audience.) 

Blount.  One  hundred  pounds  on  the  next  game,  Evelyn"?  (going  to 
the  table.) 

Sir  J.  Nonsense — nonsense — don't  disturb  him  !  All  the  fishes  come 
to  the  bait !  Sharks  and  minnows  all  nibbling  away  at  my  son-in-law. 
(goes  and  lakes  the  snuff-box.) 

Eve.  One  hundred  pounds,  Blount?  Oh,  yes!  the  finest  gentleman 
is  never  too  fine  a  gentleman  (o  pick  up  a  guinea.  Done  !  Treble  the 
stakes,  Smooth  ! 

Sir  J.  I'm  on  the  rack  !  Be  cool,  Evelyn1  take  care,  my  dear  boy  ! 
Be  coo! — be  cool  !  (Smooth  shoios  his  cards.) 

Eve.  What — what?  You  have  four  queens ! — five  to  the  king.  Con- 
found the  cards  !  a  fresh  pack,  (throws  the  cards  behind  him  over  Sir 
John.     Waiter  brings  a  new  pack  of  cards  to  Evelyn.) 

Old  Mem.  Waiter!  the  snuff-box.  {murmurs.  Different  Members 
gather  round.) 

Two  Members  re-enter,  and  advance  to  Evelyn's  table.    Ml  the  Waiters  on. 

Flat  (with  back  to  audience).  I  never  before  saw  Evelyn  out  of  tem- 
per.    He  must  be  losing  immensely  ! 

Green  (r.).  Yes — this  is  interesting  ! 

Sir  J.  Interesting  !     There's  a  wretch ! 

Flat  (next  to  Green).  Poor  fellow  !  he'll  be  ruined  in  a  month 

Sir  J.   I'm  in  a  cold  sweat! 

Green.  Smooth  is  the  very  devil. 

Sir  J.  The  devil's  a  joke  to  him ! 

Gloss,  (slapping  Sir  John  on  the  back).  A  clever  fellow  that  Smooth, 
Sir  John,  ehl  (takes  up  the  snuff-box;  Old  Member  as  before)  £100  on 
this  game,  Evelyn  1   (going  to  the  table.) 

Eve.  (half  turning  round).  You!  well  clone  the  Constitution!  yes, 
£100! 

Old  Mem.  Waiter !  the  snuff-box. 

Stout.  I  think  I'll  venture  £200  on  this  game,  Evelyn  1  (goes  in  front 
of  table,  -r.) 

Eve.  (quite  turning  round).  Ha!  ha!  ha! — Enlightenment  and  the 
Constitution  on  the  same  side  of  the  question  at  last!  Oh,  Stout,  Stout! 
— greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number — greatest  number,  number 
one!  Done,  Stout!— £200!  ha!  ha!  deal,  Smooth.  Well  done,  Politi- 
cal Economy — ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sir  J.  Quite  l)3rsterical — drivelling !  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  your- 
selves 1  His  own  cousins — all  in  a  conspiracy — a  perfect  gang  of  them. 
(takes  snuff-box  as  before.     Members  indignant.) 

Stout  (to  Members).   Hush  !  he's  to  marry  Sir  John's  daughter  ! 

Flat.  What !  Stingy  Jack's  1  oh ! 

Chorus  of  Mems.  Oh!  oh! 

Eve.  By  Heaven,  there  never  was  such  luck!  It's  enough  to  drive  a 
man  wild  !  This  is  mere  child's  play,  Smooth — double  or  quits  on  the 
whole  amount ! 


ACT  IV.]  MONEY.  45 

Smooth.  Anything  to  oblige  !  (murmurs;  they  play  quickly.) 

Sir  J.  Oil,  dear — oh,  dear  !   {great  excitement.) 
*    Eve.    {throwing  down  his  cards,  and  rising  in  great  agitation).  No  more, 
no   more — I've  done! — quite  enough!     Glossmore,  Stout,  Blount — I'll 
pay  you  to-morrow.     I — I — Death! — this   is   ruinous!  [crosses  l.,  seizes 
the  snuff-box,  and  goes  up,  l.  c,  to  chair,  l   u.  e.  ;  sits.) 

Sir  J.  Ruinous  ?  What  has  he  lost  ?  what  has  he  lost,  Smooth  ?  Not 
much?  eh  1  eh?  (Members  look  at  Evelyn;  others  gather  round 
Smooth,  c.) 

Smooth.  Oh,  a  trifle,  dear  John! — excuse  me!  We  never  tell  our 
winnings,  {to  Blount,  l.)  How  d'ye  do,  Fred  ? — (to  Glossmore,  r.)  By 
the  bye,  Charles,  don't  you  want  to  sell  your  house  in  Grosvenor  square  I 
—£12,000,  eh  ! 

Gloss.  Yes,  and  the  furniture  at  valuation.     About  £3,000  more. 

Smooth   (looking  over  his  pocket-book).  Urn  !    Well,  we'll  talk  of  it. 

Sir  J.  (l.  a).  12  aud  3 — £15,000.  What  a  cold-blooded  rascal  it  is  ! 
—£15,000,  Smooth  ? 

Smooth.  Oh,  the  house  itself  is  a  trifle;  but  the  establishment — I'm 
considering  whether  I  have  enough  to  keep  it  up,  my  dear  John,  (goes  l.) 

Old  Mem.  Waiter!  the  snuff-box!  (scraping  it  round  and  with  a  wry 
face)  And  it's  all  gone  !  (gives  it  to  the  Waiter  to  Jill.) 

Sir  J.  (turning  round).  And  it's  all  gone  ! 

Eve.  (starting  up  and  laughing  hysterically).  Ha  !  ha  !  all  gone  ?  not  a 
bit  of  it.  (goes  to  Smooth,  c.)  Smooth,  this  club  is  so  noisy.  Sir  John, 
you  are  always  in  the  way.  Come  to  my  house  !  come  !  Champagne 
and  a  broiled  bone.  Nothing  venture,  nothing  have  !  The  luck  must 
turn,  and  by  Jupiter  we'll  make  a  night  of  it!  {going;  Sir  John  stops 
him.) 

Sir  J.  A  night  of  it!  For  Heaven's  sake,  Evelyn  !  Evelyn! — think 
what  you  are  about ! — think  of  Georgina's  feelings  ! — think  of  your  poor 
lost  mother  ! — think  of  the  babes  unborn  ! — think  of 

Eve.  I'll  think  of  nothing  !  Zounds! — you  don't  know  what  I  have 
lost,  man  ;  it's  all  your  fault,  distracting  my  attention.  Pshaw — pshaw  ! 
Out  of  the  way,  do  !  (throivs  Sir  John  of,  l.)  Come,  Smooth.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
a  night  of  it,  my  boy — a  night  of  ij  !     [Exeunt  Smooth  and  Evelyn,  c. 

Sir  J.  (following).  You  must  not — you  shall  not!  Evelyn,  my  dear 
Evelyn  !  he's  drunk — he's  mad  !     Will  no  one  send  for  the  police  ! 

[Exit,  c. 

Mems.  Ha!  ha!  ha!     Poor  old  Stingy  Jack  ! 

Old  Mem.  (rising  for  the  first  time,  and  in  a  great  rage).  AVaiter  !  the 
snuff-box ! 

Mems.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Stingy  Jack  !  (murmurs  and  laughter  as  the  act- 
drop  descends.) 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I. — An  ante-room  in  Evelyn's  house. 

Enter  Toke,  Glossmore,  and  Blount,  R.      Chairs  and  tables  with  writing 
materials,  r.  and  L. 

Tore.  My  master  is  not  very  well,  my  lord  ;  but  I'll  let  him  know. 

[Exit  Tore,  c.  d. 


46  MONEY.  [ACT  IT. 

Gloss.  I  am  very  curious  to  learn  the  result  of  his  gambling  tete-a- 
tete.  There  are  strange  reports  abroad,  and  the  tradesmen  have  taken 
the  alarm. 

Blount.  Oh,  he's  so  howwidly  wich,  he  can  afford  even  a  tete-a-tete 
with  Deadly  Smooth  ! 

Gloss.  Poor  old  Stingy  Jack!  why,  Georgina  was  your  intended. 

Blount.  Yej ;  and  I  weally  liked  the  girl,  though  out  of  pique  I  pwo- 
posed  to  her  cousin.     But  what  can  a  man  do  against  money  ? 

Enter  Evelyn,  c,  in  a  morning  wrapper. 

If  we  could  start  fair,  you'd  see  whom  Georgina  would  pwe'fer  ;  but  she's 
sacwificed  by  her  father  !     She  as  much  as  told  me  so  !  (crosses,  n.) 

Eve.  {aside).  Now  to  work  still  further  upon  Sir  John,  through  these 
excellent  friends  of  mine,  (aloud)  So,  so — good  morning,  gentlemen  ! 
we've  a  little  account  to  settle — one  hundred  each. 

Both.  Don't  talk  of  it. 

Eve.  {putting  up  his  pocket-booh).  Well,  I'll  not  talk  of  it.  {taking 
Blount  aside)  Ha!  ha!  you'd  hardly  believe  it — but  I'd  rather  not  pay 
you  just  at  present;  my  money  is  locked  up,  and  I  must  wait,  you 
know,  for  the  Groginhole  rents.  So,  instead  of  owing  you  £100,  sup- 
pose I  owe  you^e  ?  You  can  give  me  a  check  for  the  other  four.  And, 
harkye  !  not  a  word  to  Glossmore. 

Blount.  Glossmore  !  the  gweatest  gossip  in  London  !  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted !  (aside)  It  never  does  harm  to  lend  to  a  wich  man;  one  gets  it 
back  somehow,  (aloud)  By  the  way,  Evelyn,  if  you  want  my  gwey  cab- 
horse,  you  may  have  him  for  £200,  and  that  will  make  seven. 

Eve.  (aside).  That's  the  fashionable  usury  ;  your  friend  does  not  take 
interest — he  sells  you  a  horse,  {aloud)  Blount,  it's  a  bargain.  (Blount 
goes  to  r.  table.) 

Blount  (writing  a  check,  and  musingly).  No;  I  don't  see  what  harm  it 
can  do  me ;  that  off-leg  must  end  in  a  spavin. 

Eve.  Now  for  my  other  friend,  (to  Glossmore)  That  £100  I  owe  you 
is  rather  inconvenient  at  present;  I've  a  large  sum  to  make  up  for  the 
Gro°inhole  property — perhaps  you  would  lend  me  five  or  six  hundred 
more — just  to  go  on  with  1 

Gloss,  (l.).  Certainly!  Hopkins  is  dead;  your  interest  for  Cipher 
would 

Eve.  Why,  I  can't  promise  that  at  this  moment.  But  as  a  slight 
mark  of  friendship  and  gratitude,  I  shall  be  very  much  flattered  if  you'll 
accept  a  splendid  gray  cab-horse  I  bought  to-day — cost  £200  ! 

Gloss,  {aside).  Bought  to-day — then  I'm  safe,  {aloud)  My  dear  fellow, 
you're  always  so  princely  ! 

Evk.  Nonsense  !  just  write  the  check  ;  and,  harkye,  not  a  syllable  to 
Blount! 

Gloss.  Blount!     He's  the  town-crier  !  (goes  to  write  at  l.  table.) 

Blount  (rises,  giving  Evelyn  the  check).  Wansom's,  Pall-mall  East. 

Eve.  Thank  you.     So  you  proposed  to  Miss  Douglas! 

Blount  (r.).  Hang  it!  yes;  I  could  have  sworn  that  she  fancied  me; 
her  manner,  for  instance,  the  vewy  day  you  pwoposed  for  Miss  Vesey, 
otherwise  Georgina 

Eve.  Has  only  half  what  Miss  Douglas  has. 

Blount.  You  forget  how  much  Stingy  Jack  must  have  saved!  But 
I  beg  your  pardon. 

Eve.  Never  mind;  but  not  a  word  to  Sir  John,  or  he'll  fancy  I'm 
ruined.  (Glossmore  comes  down,  l  ) 


ACT  IV.]  MONEY.  47 

Gloss.  (givi»g  the  check).  Ransom's,  Pall-mall  East.  Tell  me,  did 
you  win  or  lose  last  night  ! 

Eve.   Win!   lose!  oil!     No  more  of  that,  if  you  love  me.    I  musl 
off  at  once  to  the  banker's.   {looking  at  tin  two  checks,) 

Gloss,    (aside).    Why,  he's  borrowed  from  Blount,  loo  ! 

Blouxt  (aside).  That's  a  cheque  from  Lord  Glossraore, 

Eve.  Excuse  me;  I  must  dress;  I  have  not  a  moment  to  lo  e  v 
remember  you  dine  with  me  to-day — seven  o'clock.  You'll  meet.  Smooth. 
(mournfully)  It  maybe  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  welcome  you  here. 
My — what  am  I  saying?  Oh,  merely  a  joke — goodbye — good  bye.  (shak- 
ing them  heartily  by  the  hand.  Exit,  c.  d.  Glossmoke  and  Blount  look 
at  each  o  Iter  for  «  moment,  and  then  speak.) 

Blouxt.   Glossmore  ! 

Gloss.  Blount! 

Blount.  1  am  afwaid  all's  not  wight ! 

Gloss.  I  incline  to  your  opinion. 

Blouxt.   But  I've  sold  my  gway  cab-horse. 
•  Gloss.  Gray  cab-horse!  you! — What  is  he  really  worth  now? 

Blount.  Since  he  is  sold,  I  will  tell  you — Not  a  sixpence. 

Gloss.  Not  a  sixpence  1  he  gave  it  to  me. 

Blount.  That  was  devilish  unhandsome!  Do  you  know,  I  feel  ner- 
vous ! 

Gloss.  Nervous  !     Let  us  run  and  stop  payment  of  our  checks. 

Enter  Toke,  c.  d.  ;   he  runs  across  the  stage  toivards  r. 

Blocxt.  Hollo,  John  !  where  so  fast  1 

Toke  (in  great  haste).  Beg  pardon.  Sir  Frederick,  to  Pall-mall  Easi  — 
Messrs.  Ransom.  [Exit,  r. 

Blount  (solemnly)    Glossmore.  we  are  floored  ? 
Gloss.  Sir,  the  whole  town  shall  know  of  it.  [Exeunt,  n. 

SCENE  II. — A  splendid  saloon  in  Evelyn's  house.    Doors  C,  leading  to  the 
dining-room. 

Evelyn  and  Graves  discovered  seated. 

Graves.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  borrowed  money  of  Sir  John  1 

Eve.  Yes.  five  hundred  pounds.  Observe  how  I'll  thank  him  for  it  ; 
observe  how  delighted  he  will  be  to  find  that  live  hundred  was  really  of 
service  to  me. 

Graves.  I  don't  understand  you.  You've  grown  so  mysterious  of  late. 
You've  withdrawn  your  money  from  Flash  and  Brisk? 

Eve.   (r.  o/l.  table).  No. 

Graves.   No — then 

Enter  Sir   Jonx,  Lady   Franklin,  and  Geoegina,  r.  Georgina  goes  to 
table  l.,  and  listens  to  Evelyn.     Lady  Franklin  and  Graves  up  c. 

Sir  J.  You  got  the  check   for  £500  safely — too   happy  to—  (g, 
Evelyn's  hand.  \ 

Eve.  [interrupting  him).  My  best  thanks — my  warmest  gratitude! 
So  kind  in  you  !  so  seasonable — that  £500 — you  don't  know  the  value 
of  that  £500.     I  shall  never  forget  your  nobleness  of  conduct. 

Sir  J.  Gratitude  !  Nobleness  !   (aside)  I  can't  have  been  taken  in  ? 

Eve.  And  in  a  moment  of  such  distress  ! 


48  MONEY.  [ACT  IV. 

Sir  J.  {aside).  Such  distress !  He  picks  out  the  ugliest  words  in  the 
whole  dictionary. 

Eve.  You  must  know,  ray  dear  Sir  John,  I've  done  with  Smooth. 
But  I'm  still  a  little  crippled,  and  you  must  do  me  another  favor.  I've 
only  as  yet  paid  the  deposit  of  ten  per  cent,  for  the  gieat  Groginhole  prop- 
erty. 1  am  to  pay  the  rest  this  week — nay,  I  fear  to-morrow.  I  ve 
already  sold  out  of  the  Funds  for  the  purchase;  the  money  lies  at  the 
bankers',  and  of  course  I  can't  touch  it ;  for  if  I  don't  pay  by  a  certain 
day,  I  forfeit  the  estate  and  the  deposit. 

Sir  J.  What's  coming  now.  1  wonder  ! 

Enter  Servant,   R.     Announces  Mr.  Stout  and  exits.     Entry  Stout,  in 
evening  dress. 

Eve.  Georgina's  fortune  is  £10,000.  I  always  meant,  my  dear  Sir 
John,  to  present  you  with  that  little  sum. 

But  J.  Oh,  Evelyn!   {wipes  his  eyes ;  Stout  goes  to  l   table.)  . 

Eve.  But  the  news  of  my  losses  has  frightened  my  tradesmen!  I 
have  so  many  heavy  debts  at  this  moment  that — that — that. — But  I  see 
Georgina  is  listening,  and  I'll  say  what  I  have  to  say  to  her.  (crosses  to 
her.  r.  c.) 

Sir  J.  No,  no — no,  no.     Girls  don't  understand  business. 

Eve.  The  very  reason  I  speak  to  her.  This  is  an  affair  not  of  busi- 
ness, but  of  feeling.     Stout,  show  Sir  John  my  Correguio. 

Sir  J.  (aside).  Devil  take  his  Correggio  !  The  man  is  born  to  torment 
me  !  (Stout  takes  him  by  the  arm,  and  points  off,  l.  s.  e  ) 

Eve.  My  dear  Georgina,  whatever  you  may  hear  said  of  me,  I  flatter 
myself  that  you  feel  confidence  in  my  honor. 

Geor    Can  you  doubt  it  1 

Eve.  I  confess  that  I  am  embarrassed  at  this  moment;  I  have  been 
weak  enough  to  lose  money  at  play.  I  promise  you  never  to  gamble 
again  as  long  as  I  live.  My  affairs  cnn  be  retrieved  ;  but  for  the  first 
few  years  of  our  marriage  it  may  be  necessary  to  retrench. 

Geor.   Retrench  ! 

Eve.  To  live,  perhaps,  altogether  in  the  country. 

Geoii.  Altogether  in  the  country! 

Eve.  To  confine  ourselves  to  a  modest  competence. 

Geor.  Modest  competence  !     I  knew  something  horrid  was  coming  . 

Enter  Sir  F.  Blount,  r.  ;  he  salutes  Evelyn  and  Lady  Franklin. 

Eve.  And  now,  Georgina,  you  may  have  it  in  your  power  at  this 
moment  to  save  me  from  much  anxiety  and  humiliation.  My  money  is 
locked  up — my  debts  of  honor  must  be  settled — you  are  of  age — your 
£10,000  is  in  your  own  hands 

Sir  J.  (Stout  listening  as  well  as  Sir  John).  I'm  standing  on  hot  iron. 

Eve.  If  you  could  lend  it  to  m3  for  a  few  weeks.  You  hesitate.  Can 
you  give  me  this  proof  of  your  confidence  1  Remember,  without  confi- 
dence, what  is  wedlock  1 

Sir  J.  (aside  to  her).  No!  (Evelyn  turns  sharply)  Yes,  (pointing  his 
glass  at  the  Correggio)  the  painting  may  be  fine. 

Stout.  But  you  don't  like  the  subject  1 

Geor.   (aside).  He  may  be  only  trying  me!     Best  leave  it  to  papa. 

Eve.   Well 

Geor.  You — you  shall  hear  from  me  to-morrow,  (aside)  Ah,  there's 
that  dear  Sir  Frederick  !  (goes  to  Blount,  at  the  back.) 


ACT  IV.]  MONET.  49 

Enter  Glossmorb  and  Smooth,  r.     Evelyn  salutes  them,  paying  Smooth 

set  vile  respect  •  takes  las  arm  and  crosses  to  l.,  and  up  the  stage. 

Lady  F.  (r.  c,  to  Graves).  Ha  !  ha  !  To  be  so  disturbed  yesterday — 
was  it  not  droll  1 

Graves.  Never  recur  to  that  humiliating  topic. 

Gloss,  (c,  to  Stout).  See  how  Evelyn  lawns  upon  Smooth. 

Stout.  How  mean  in  him  ! — Smooth — a  professional  gambler — a  fel- 
low who  lives  by  his  wits.  I  would  not  know  such  a  man  on  any  account. 
(Smooth  tames  down,  c.) 

Smooth  to  Glossmorb).  So  Hopkins  is  dead — you  want  Cipher  t  > 
come  in  for  Qroginhole,  eh  ''. 

Gloss,  (l.  c  ).  What — could  you  manage  it?  {aside)  Why,  he  must 
have  won  his  whole  fortune. 

Smooth.  C'e  cher,  Charles! — anything  to  oblige. 

Gloss.  It  is  not  possible  he  can  have  lost  Groginhole  ! 

Stout.  Groginhole  !  What  can  he  have  done  with  Grosinhole ! 
Glossmore,  present  me  to  Smooth. 

Gloss.  What!  the  gambler — the  fellow  who  lives  by  his  wits  ] 

Stout.  Why.  his  wits  seem  to  be  an  uncommonly  productive  capital  ! 
I'll  introduce  myself,  (crosses  to  Smooth)  How  d'ye  do,  Captain  Smooth? 
We  have  met  at  the  club,  I  think — I  am  charmed  to  make  your  acquain- 
tance in  private.  I  say,  sir,  what  do  you  think  of  the  affairs  of  the 
nation?  Bad!  very  bad — no  enlightenment — great  fall  off  in  the  reve- 
nue— no  knowledge  of  finance!  There's  only  one  man  who  can  save  the 
country — and  that's  Popkins  ! 

Smooth.  Is  he  in  Parliament,  Mr.  Stout  1  What's  your  Christian 
name,  by-the-bye  1 

Stout.  Benjamin — No; — constituences  are  so  ignorant  they  don't  un- 
derstand his  value.  He's  no  orator :  in  fact,  be  stammers  a  little — that 
is,  a  great  deal — but  devilish  profound.  Could  not  we  ensure  him  for 
Groginhole? 

Smooth.  My  dear  Benjamin,  it  is  a  thing  to  be  thought  on.  {they  re- 
tire.) 

Eve.  {advancing).  My  friends,  pray    be  seated,  (they  sit*)  I    wish  to 
consult  you.     This  day  twelve   months  I  succeeded  to  an  immense    it 
come,  and  as,  by  a  happy  coincidence,  on  the  same  day  I  secured  your 
esteem,  so  now  I  wish  to  ask  you  if  you  think  I    could   have    spent  that 
income  in  a  way  more  worthy  your  good  opinion. 

Gloss.  Impossible!  excellent  taste — beautiful  house  ! 

Blount.  Vewy  good  horses — {aside,  to  Glossmore) — especially  t!  e 
gway  cab. 

Lady  F.  Splendid  pictures  ! 

Graves.  And  a  magnificent  cook,  ma'am! 

Smooth  (thrusting  hishandsinto  his  pockets).  It  is  my  opinion.  Alfred 
— and  I'm  a  judge — that  you  could  not  have  spent  your  money  better. 

Omnrb  (except  Sir  John).  Very  true! 

Geor.  Certaiuly.  (coaxingly)  Don't  retrench,  my  dear  Alfred ! 

Gloss.  Retrench!  nothing  so  plebeian  ! 

Btout.  Plebeian,  sir — worse  than  plebeian — it  is  against  all  rules  of 
public  morality.     Every  one  knows,  now-a-days,  that   extravagance  is  a 

*  All  sit  thus. 

Sib   Frederick.       Glossmore.       Stout.        Sk  oth.       Georgina. 

Lady  Franklin.  ■  vs. 

Graves.  Si 

b.  l. 


50  MOHEY.  LACI    1V- 

benefit  to  the  population — encourages  art — employs  labor — and  multi- 
plies spinning- jennies. 

Eve.  You  reassure  me!  I  own  I  did  .think  that  a  man  worthy  of 
friends  so  sincere  might  have  done  something  better  than  feast — dress — 
drink — play 

Gloss.  Nonsense — we  like  you  the  better  for  it.  (aside)  I  wish  I  had 
my  ,£600  back,  though. 

Eve.  And  you  are  as  much  my  friends  now  as  when  you  offered  me 
£10  for  my  old  nurse'? 

Sir  J.  A  thousand  times  more  so,  my  dear  boy.  (Omnes  approve.) 

Enter  Sharp,  r. 

Smooth    But  who's  our  new  friend  1 

Eve.  Who  1  the  very  man  who  first  announced  to  me  the  wealth 
which  you  allow  I  have  spent  so  well.  But  what's  the  matter,  Sharp  ] 
(crosses  to  Sharp,  who  whispers  to  him.) 

Eve.  (aloud).  The  bank's  broke !  {all  s' art  up.) 

Sik  J.  Bank  broke — what  bank  Y  (coming  down,  c.) 

Eve.  Flash,  Brisk  and  Co. 

Sir  J.   But  I  warned  you — you  withdrew  1 

Eve.  Alas!  no  ! 

Sir  .7.  Oil !     Not  much  in  their  hands  1 

Eve.  Why,  1  told  yott  the  purchase-money  for  Groginhole  was  at  my 
bankers' — but  no,  no  ;  don't  look  so  frightened  !  It  was  not  placed  with 
Flash — it  is  at  Hoare's — it  is,  indeed.  Nay,  I  assure  you  it  is.  A  mere 
trifle  at  Flash's,  upon  my  word,  now  !  Don't  groan  in  that  way.  You'll 
frighten  everybody!  To-morrow,  Sharp,  we'll  talk  of  this  !  One  day 
more — one  day,  at  least  for  enjoyment,  (walks  to  and  fro.) 

Sir  J.  Oh  !  a  pretty  enjoyment! 

Blount.  And  he  borrowed  £700  of  me  ! 

Glos-s.  And  £600  of  me  ! 

Sir  J.  And  £500  of  me  ! 

Stout.  Oil!  a  regular  Jeremy  Diddler  ! 

Stout  (to  Sir  John).  I  say,  you  have  placed  your  daughter  in  a  very 
unsafe  investment.     Transfer  the  stock. 

Sir  J.  (going  to  Georgina).  Ha!  I'm  afraid  we've  been  very  rude  to 
Sir  Frederick.     A  monstrous  fine  young  man  ! 

Enter  Tore,  with  a  letter,  r. 

Tore  {to  Evelyn).  Sir,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  Mr.  MacFinch  insists 
on  my  giving  you  this  letter  instantly. 

Eve.  (reading).  How!  Sir  John,  this  fellow,  MacFinch,  has  heard  of 
my  misfortunes,  and  insists  on  beina  paid — a  lawyer's  letter — quite  inso- 
lent.    Here,  read  this  letter — you'll  be  quite  amused  with  it. 

Tore.  And,  sir,  Mr.  Tabouret  is  below,  and  declares  he  will  not  stir 
till  he's  paid.  [Exit,  k. 

Eve.  Not  stir  till  he's  paid  !  What's  to  be  done,  Sir  John  >.  Smooth, 
what  is  to  be  done  1 

Smooth  (seated,  c.).  If  he'll  not  stir  till  he's  paid,  make  him  put  up  a 
bed.  and  I'll  take  him  in  the  inventory,  as  one  of  the  fixtures,  Alfred. 

Eve.  It  is  very  well  for  you  to  joke,  Mr.  Smooth.     But 

Enter  Sheriff's  Officer,  giving  a  paper  to  Evelyn  and  whispering. 
Eve.  What's  this?     Frantz,   the  tailor.     Why,  the  impudent  scoun- 


All  up  the  stage,  l.  and 
l.  c. 


ACT  IV.]  MONEY.  51 

diel  !     Faith,  this  is  more  tlian  I  bargained  for — Sir  John,  I'm  arrested. 

Stout.  He's  arrested,  (slapping  Sir  John  on  the  back  with  ylee)  old 
gentleman  !     Bill  I  didn't  lend  him  a  farthing. 

Eve.  And  for  a  mere  song — £150!  Sir  John,  pay  this  fellow,  will 
you  ?  or  see  that  my  people  kick  out  the  bailiffs,  or  do  it  yourself,  or 
somethiug — while  we  go  to  dinner. 

Sir  J  Pay— kick— ill  be  d— d  if  I  do !  Oh,  my  £500  !  my  £500  ! 
Mr.  Alfred  Evelyn.  I  want  my  £500!  (Graves  and  Lady  Franklin 
come  forward    r.  c.) 

Graves.  I'm  going  to  do  a  very  silly  thing — I  shall  lose  both  my 
friend  and  my  money — just  like  my  luck — Evelyn,  go  to  dinner — Ell 
settle  this  for  you. 

Lady  F.  I  love  you  for  that ! 

Graves.  Do  you?  then  I  am  the  nappiest — Ah!  ma'am,  I  don't  know 
what  1  am  saying  I  (Lady  Franklin  retires,  r.  Exeunt  Graves  and  Of- 
ficer, r  ) 

Eve.  (to  Georoina,  who  is  l.  c).  Don't  go  by  these  appearances!  I 
repeat,  £10,000  will  more  than  cover  all  my  embarrassments.  I  shall 
hear  from  you  to-morrow  1 

Geor.  Yes — yes  !  [going,  r.) 

Eve.  But  you're  not  going  1  You,  too,  Glossmorel  you,  Blount  1 — 
you,  Stout  '. — you,  Smooth  .' 

Smooth.  No.    I'll  stick  by  you  as  long  as  you've  a  guinea  to  stake  ! 

Gloss.  Oh,  this  might  have  been  expected  from  a  man  of  such  am- 
biguous political  opinions  !  (crosses,  r.) 

Stout.  Don't  stop  me,  sir.  No  man  of  common  enlightenment  would 
have  squandered  Ins  substance  in  this  way.  Pictures  and  statues — 
baugh  !  (crosses,  n.) 

Eve.  Why,  you  all  said  I  could  not  spend  my  money  better !  Ha! 
ha!  ha! — the  abiimlest  mist  ike — you  don't  fancy  I'm  going  to  prison — 
Ha!  ha!  Why  don't  you  lauuh,  Sir  John1? — ha!  ha!  ha!  (goes  up  the 
stage.     Sir  Joun  crosses  to  r.  c.) 

Sir  J.  Sir,  this  horrible  levity  !  Take  Sir  Frederick's  arm,  my  poor, 
injured,  innocent  child. 

Smooth.  But,  my  dear  John,  they  have  no  right  to  arrest  the  dinner. 

The  C.  doors  are  thrown  open  by  two  Servants,  a  handsome  dining-room  is 
discovered,  and  a  table  elegantly  set  for  ten  jjersons.  Enter  Toke,  c. 

Toke.  Dinner  is  served. 

Gloss.  (  pausing).  Dinner  ! 

Stout.  Dinner!  a  very  good  smell ! 

Eve.  (to  Sir  John).  Turtle  and  venison,  too.  (they  stop  irresolute) 
That's  right — come  along — come  along — but  one  word  first,  Blount 
— Stout — Glossmore — Sir  John — one  word  first;  will  you  lend  me 
£10  tor  my  old  nurse?  (they  all  fall  buck)  Ah,  you  fall  back!  Be- 
hold a  lesson  for  all  who  build  friendship  upon  their  fortune,  and  not 
their  virtues.  You  lent  me  hundreds  this  morning  to  squander  upon 
pleasure — you  would  refuse  me  £10  now  to  bestow  upon  benevoleuce. 
Go — we  have  done  with  each  other — go. 

[Exeunt,  indignantly,  r.,  all  but  Evelyn  and  Smooth. 

Re-enter  Graves,  r. 

Graves.  Heyday!  what's  all  this  ? 

Eve.  Ha  !  ha  ! — the  scheme  prospers — the  duper  is  duped  !  Come, 
my  friends — come;  when  the  standard  of  money  goesdown,  in  the  great 


52  MONEY.  [ACT  V. 

battle  between  man  and  fate — why,  ft  bumper  to  the  brave  hearts  that- 
refuse  to  desert  us.  [Exeunt,  c.  door. 
Smooth  and  Graves.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  {ring  down  when  Evelyn  is  seated.) 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — ****'«  Club;  Smooth,   Glossmore— four  other  Members 
discovered.  * 

Gloss.  Will  his  horses  be  sold,  think  you  ? 

Smooth.  Very  possibly,  Charles — a  fine  stud — hum — ha  !  Waiter,  o 
"lass  of  sherry  !  (Smooth  m  at  breakfast  at  the  l.  table,  where  the  Old  Mem- 
ber sal.) 

Enter  Waiter,  c,  with  sherry. 

Gloss.  They  say  he  must  go  abroad. 

Smooth.  Well;  'tis  the  best  time  of  year  for  travelling,  Charles. 

Gloss.  We  are  all  to  be  paid  to-day ;  and  that  looks  suspicious  ! 

Smooth.  Very  suspicious,  Charles  !     Hum  ! — ah  ! 

Gloss,  [rises  and  crosses  to  Smooth^.  My  dear  fellow,  you  must  know 
the  rights  of  the  matter;  I  wish  you'd  speak  out.  What  have  you  really 
won  1     Is  the  house  itself  cone  1 

Smooth.  The  house  itself  is  certainly  not  gone,  Charles,  for  I  saw  it 
exactly  in  the  same  place  this  morning  at  half-past  ten — it  has  not 
moved  an  inch.    (Waiter  gives  a  letter  to  Glossmore .) 

Gloss,  {reading).  From  Groginhole — an  express  !  What's  this  1  I'm 
amazed!  (reading)  "They've  actually,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  started  Mr. 
Evelyn  ;  and  nobody  knows  what  his  politics  are  !  We  shall  be  btat ! — 
the  Constitution  is  gone — Cipher!"  Oh!  this  is  infamous  in  Evelyn! 
Gets  into  Parliament  just  to  keep  himself  out  of  the  Bench  ! 

Smooth    He's  capable  of  it. 

Gloss.  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  sir  !  Not  a  doubt  of  it !  The  man  saves 
himself  at  the  expense  of  his  country — Groginhole  is  lost.  There's  an 
end  of  the  Constitution  !  [Exit,  c. 

Enter  Sir  John  and  Blount,  c,  talking. 

Sir  J.  My  dear  boy,  I'm  not  flint!  I  am  but  a  man!  If  Georgina 
really  loves  you — and  I  am  sure  that  she  does — 1  will  never  think  of  sac- 
rificing her  happiness  to  ambition — she  is  yours  ;  I  told  her  so  this  very 
morning. 

Blount  {aside).  The  old  humbug  ! 

Sir  J.  She's  the  best  of  daughteis!  Dine  with  me  at  seven,  and  we'd 
talk  of  the  settlements.  (Waiter  brings  a  billon  a  salver  to  Smooth;  he 
pays  it  ) 

Blount.  Yes;  I  don't  care  for  fortune — but 

Sir  J.  Her  £10,000  will  be  settled  on  herself — that  of  course. 

Blount.  All  of  it,  sir  1     Weally,  I 

Sir  J.  What  then,  my  dear  boy  ?  I  shall  leave  you  both  all  I've  laid 
by.     Ah,  you  know   I'm  a  close  fellow  !     "  Stingy  Jack," — eh  ?     After 


*  This  Scene  is  frequently  omitted. 


ACT  V.]  MONEY.  53 

all.,  worth  makes  the  man!  (Waiter  removes  breakfast  things  and  cloth  from 
Smooth's  table.) 

Smooth,  [rises).  And  the  more  a  man's  worth,  John,  the  worthier  man 

lie   must   be.  (Exeunt,  Members  and  .Smooth,    c.     Sir  John  takes  up  a 
newspaper  and  reads.) 

Blount  (aside).  Yes;  he  has  no  other  child!  She  must  have  all  his 
savings  ;  I  don't  see  what  barm  it  could  do  me.  Still,  that  £10,000 — 1 
want  that  €10,000;  if  she  would  but  wun  off  one  could  get  wid  of  the 
settlements. 

Enter  Stout,  c.  (wiping  his  forehead),  and  takes  Sir  John  aside,  l. 

Stout.  Sir  John,  we've  been  played  upon  !  My  secretary  is  brother 
to  Flash's  head  clerk  ;  Evelyn  had  not  £300  in  the  bank! 

Sir  J.  (a).  Bless  us  and  save  us  !  you  take  away  my  breatli  !  But 
then — Deadly  Smooth — the  execution — the — Oh,  he  must  be  done  up  ! 

Stout.  As  to  Smooth,  he'd  "  do  anything  to  oblige."  All  a  trick,  d  •- 
pend  upon  it.  Smooth  has  already  deceived  me,  for  before  the  day's 
over,  Evelyn  will  be  member  for  Groginhole.  I've  had  an  express  from 
Popkins  ;  he's  in  despair  !  not  for  himself — but  for  the  country,  Sir  John, 
— what's  to  become  of  the  country  1 

Sir  J.  But  what  could  be  Evelyn's  object  ? 

Stout.  Object  ?  Do  you  look  for  an  object  in  a  whimsical  creature 
like  that? — a  man  who  lias  not  even  any  political  opinions!  Object! 
Perhaps  to  break  off  his  match  with  your  daughter  !  Take  care,  Sir 
John,  or  the  borough  will  be  lost  to  your  family. 

Sir  J.  Aha  !  I  begin  to  smell  a  rat. 

Stout    Do  you  \ 

Sir  J.  But  it  is  not  too  late  yet. 

Stout.  My  interest  in  Popkins  made  me  run  to  Lord  Spendquick, 
the  late  proprietor  of  Groginhole.  I  told  him  that  Evelyn  could  not  pay 
the  rest  of  the  money  !  and  he  told  me  that 

Sir  J.  What? 

Stout.  Mr.  Sharp  had  just  paid  it  him;  there's  no  hope  for  Popkins! 
England  will  rue  this  day.  (goes  to  table  and  looks  at  papers.) 

Sin  J.  Georgina  shall  lend  him  the  money  !  iY/lend  him — every  man  in 
my  house  shall  lend  him — I  feel  again  what  it  is  to  be  a  father-in-law — 
Sir  Frederick,  excuse  me — you  can't  dine  with  me  to-day.  And,  on  sec- 
ond thoughts,  I  see  that  it  would  be  very  unhandsome  to  desert  poor 
Evelyn,  now  he's  down  in  the  world.  Can't  think  of  it.  my  dear  boy — 
can't  think  of  it !  Very  much  honored,  and  happy  to  see  you  as  a  friend. 
Waiter,  my  carriage!  Urn!  What,  humbug  Stingy  Jack,  will  they  1 
Ah  !  a  good  joke,  indeed.  [Exit,  c. 

Blou.vt.  Mr.  Stout,  what  have  you  been  saying  to  Sir  John  1  Some- 
thing about  my  chawacter ;  I  know  you  have;  don't  deny  it.  Sir,  I 
sh.ill  expect  satisfaction  ! 

Stout.  Satisfaction,  Sir  Frederick  ?  Pooh,  as  if  a  man  of  enlighten- 
ment had  any  satisfaction  in  fighting!  Did  not  mem  ion  your  name  ;  we 
were  talking  of  Evelyn.     Only  think — he's  no  more  ruined  than  you  are. 

Blount.  Not  wuined  !  Aha,  now  I  understand  !  So,  so  !  Stay,  let 
me  see — she's  to  meet  me  in  the  square.  ( pulls  out  his  watch  ;  a  very  small 
one. ) 

Stout  ( pulling  out  his  own  ;  a  very  large  one).  I  must  be  off  to  the  ves- 
try. [  Exit,  c. 

Blount.  Just  in  time — ten  thousand  pounds!  'Gad,  my  blood's  up, 
and  I  won't  be  tweated  in  this  way  if  he  were   fifty  times  Stingy  Jack  ! 

[  Exit,  c. 


54  MONEY.  [ACL'  V. 

SCENE  IT. — The  drawing-rooms  in  Sir  John  Vesey's  house. 
Enter  Lady  Franklix  and  Graves,  l. 

GiiAVES.  Well,  well,  I  am  certain  that  poor  Evelyn  loves  Clara  still, 
but  you  can't  persuade  me  that  she  cares  for  him. 

Lady  F.  She  has  been  breaking  her  heart  ever  since  she  heard  of  his 
distress.  Nay,  I  am  sure  she  would  >>ive  all  she  has,  could  it  save  him 
from  the  consequences  of  his  own  folly. 

Graves.  1  should  just  like  to  sound  her. 

Lady  F.  (ringing  the  bsll).  And  you  shall.  I  take  so  much  interest  in 
her,  that  I  forgive  your  friend  everything  but  his  offer  to  Georgina. 

Enter  Page,  r. 

Where  are  the  young  ladies  1 

Page.  Miss  Vesey  is,  I  believe,  still  in  the  square ;  Miss  Douglas  is 
just  come  in,  my  lady. 

Lady  F.  What !  did  she  go  out  with  Miss  Vesey  1 

Page.  No,  my  lady  ;  I  attended  her  to  Drummond's,  the  banker. 

[Exit,  r. 
Lady  F.  Drummond's  ! 

Enter  Clara,  r. 

Why,  child,  (crosses  to  Iter)  what  on  earth  could  take  you  to  Drummond's 
at  this  hour  of  the  day  ? 

Clara  (confused).  Oh,  I — that  is — I — Ah,  Mr.  Graves!  (crosses  to 
Graves)  How  is  Mr.  Evelyn  ]  How  does  he  bear  up  against  so  sudden 
a  reverse  1 

Graves.  With  an  awful  calm.  I  fear  all  is  not  right  here!  (touching 
his  head)  The  report  in  the  town  is,  that  he  must  go  abroad  instantly — 
perhaps  to-day.  (crosses  to  c.) 

Claua  (a).   Abroad! — to-day! 

Gkavks  (l.).  But  all  his  creditors  will  be  paid;  and  he  only  seerns 
anxious  to  know  if  Miss  Vesey  remains  true  in  his  misfortunes. 

Clara.  Ah  !  he  loves  her  so  much,  then  ? 

Graves.  Urn  !     That's  more  than  I  can  say. 

Claua.  She  told  me  last  night,  that  he  said  £10,000  would  free  him 
from  all  his  liabilities — that  was  the  sum,  was  it  not  1 

Graves.  Yes  ;  he  persists  in  the  same  assertion.  Will  Miss  Vesey 
lend  it  ? 

Lady  F.  (aside,  r.).  If  she  does,  I  shall  not  think  so  well  of  her  poor 
dear  mother ;  for  I  am  sure  she'd  be  no  child  of  Sir  John's! 

Graves.  I  should  like  to  convince  myself  that  my  poor  friend  has 
nothing  to  hope  from  a  woman's  generosity. 

Lady  F.  Civil!     And  are  men,  then,  less  covetous  ? 

Graves.  I  know  one  man  at  least,  who,  rejected  in  his  poverty  by 
one  as  poor  as  himself,  no  sooner  came  into  a  sudden  fortune  than  he 
made  his  lawyer  invent  a  codicil  which  the  testator  never  dreamt  of,  be- 
queathing independence  to  the  woman  who  had  scorned  him. 

Lady  F.   And  never  told  her  ? 

Graves.  Never  !  There's  no  such  document  at  Doctors'  Commons, 
depend  on  it.   You  seem  incredulous,  Miss  Clara  !  Good  day!   (crosses,  r.) 

Clara  (following  him).  One  word,  for  mercy's  sake  !  Do  I  understand 
you  right  1     Ah,  how  could  I  be  so  blind  1     Generous  Evelyn  ! 

Graves.   You  appreciate,  and  Georgina  will  desert  him.     Miss  Douglas, 


ACT  T.]  MONET.  55 

he  loves  you  still.  If  that's  not  just  like  me  !  Meddling  with  other 
people's  affairs,  as  if  they  were  worth  it — hang  them!  [Exit,  r. 

Claka    Georgina  will  desert  him.     Do  you  think  so"? 

Lady  F.  She  told  me  last  night  that  she  would  never  see  him 
again.  To  do  her  justice,  she  s  less  interested  than  her  father — and  as 
much  attached  as  she  can  be  to  another.  Even  while  engaged  to  Eve- 
lyn, she  has  met  Sir  Frederick  every  day  in  the  square. 

Clara.  And  he  is  alone — sad — forsaken — ruined.  And  I,  whom  he 
enriched — I,  the  creature  of  his  bounty — I,  once  the  woman  of  his  love 
— 1  stand  idly  here  to  content  myself  with  tears  and  prayers  !  Oh,  Lady 
Franklin,  have  pity  on  me — on  him  !  We  are  both  of  kin  to  him — as  re- 
lations we  have  both  a  right  to  comfort !     Let  us  go  to  him — come  ! 

Lady  F.  No!  it  would  scarcely  be  right — remember  the  world — I 
cannot ! 

Clara.  All  abandon  him — then  I  will  go  alone  !  (crosses,  k.) 

Lady  F.  Alone — what  will  he  think  ?     What  but 

Claka.  What  but — that,  if  lie  love  me  still,  I  may  have  enough  for 
both,  and  I  am  by  his  side  !  But  that  is  too  bright  a  dream.  He  told 
me  I  might  call  him  brother!  Where,  now,  should  a  sister  be  1  But — 
but — I — I — I — tremble!  If,  after  all — if — if — In  one  word,  am  1  too 
bold  ?  Tne  world — my  conscience  can  answer  thai — but  do  you  think 
that  he  could  despise  me  ? 

Lady  F.  No,  Clara,  no !  Your  fair  soul  is  too  transparent  for  even 
lihertines  to  misconstrue.  Something  tells  me  that  this  meeting  may 
make  the  happiness  of  both.  You  cannot  go  alone.  My  presence  jus- 
tifies all.     Give  me  your  hand — we  will  go  together.  [Exeunt,  r. 

SCENE  III. — A  room  in  Evelyn's  house,  same  as  last  of  Act  IV.     Eve- 
lyn discovered  at  table,  r. 

Eye.  Yes;  as  yet,  all  surpasses  my  expectations.  I  am  sure  of 
Smooth — I  have  managed  even  Sharp;  my  election  will  seem  but  an 
escape  from  a  prison.  Ha  !  ha  !  True,  it  cannot  last  long  ;  but  a  few 
hours  more  are  all  I  require,  and  for  that  time  at  least  I  shall  hope  to 
be  thoroughly  ruined,   {rises  and  goes  l.) 

Enter  Graves,  r. 

Well,  Graves,  and  what  do  people  say  of  me  ? 

Graves.  Everything  that's  bad  ! 

Eve.  Three  days  ago  I  was  universally  respected.  I  awake  this 
morning  to  find  myself  singularly  infamous.     Yet,  I'm  the  same  man. 

Gkaves.  Humph  !  why,  gambling 

Eve.  Cant!  it  was  not  criminal  to  gamble — it  was  criminal  to  lose. 
Tut  ! — will  you  deny  that  if  1  had  ruined  Smooth  instead  of  myself, 
every  hand  would  have  grasped  mine  yet  more  cordially,  and  every 
lip  would  have  smiled  congratulation  on  my  success  ?  Man — Man — I've 
not  been  rich  and  poor  for  nothing.  The  Vices  and  the  Virtues  are 
written  in  a  language  the  world  cannot  construe  ;  it  reads  them  in  a  vile 
translation,  and  the  translators  SiTe— failure  and  success!  You  alone  are 
unchanged. 

Graves.  There's  no  merit  in  that  I  am  always  ready  to  mingle  my 
tears  with  any  man.  (aside)  I  know  I'm  a  fool,  but  I  can't  help  it.  (aloud) 
Hark  ye,  Evelyn.  I  like  you — I'm  rich;  and  anything  I  can  do  to  get 
you  out  of  your  hobble  will  give  me  an  excuse  to  grumble  for  the  rest 
of  my  life.     There,  now  'tis  out 

Eve.  (touched).  There's  something  good   in  human   nature,  after  all  ! 


56  MONEY.  [ACT  Y. 

My  dear  friend,  I  will  now  confide  in  jou  ;  I  am  not  the  spendthrift  you 
think  me — my  losses  have  been  trifling — not  a  month's  income  of  my 
fortune.  (Graves  shakes  him  heartily  by  the  hand)  No!  it  lias  been  but  a 
stratag  ?m  to  prove  if  the  love,  on  which  was  to  rest  the  happiness  of  a 
whole  life,  were  given  to  the  Money  or  the  Man.  Now  you  guess  why  I 
hive  asked  from  Georgina  this  one  proof  of  confidence  and  affection. — 
Think  you  she   will    give  it? 

Graves.    Would  you  break  your  heart  if  she  did  not? 

Eve  It,  is  vain  to  deny  that  I  still  love  Clara;  our  Irst  conversation 
renewed  feelings  which  would  task  all  the  energies  of  my  soul  to  con- 
qu  >r.     No  !   the  heart  was  given  to  the  soul  as  its  ally,  not  as  its  traitor. 

Ghavks    What  do  you  intend  to  do  1 

Evk.  This: — If  Georgina  prove,  by  her  confidence  and  generosity, 
that  she  loves  me  for  myself,  1  will  shut  Clara  for  ever  from  my  thoughts. 
1  am  pledged  to  Georgina,  and  I  will  carry  to  the  altar  a  soul  resolute 
to  deserve  her  affectio  i  and  fulfill  its  vows. 

Graves    And  if  she  reject  you  ? 

Eve.  Uoyftlfyi).  If  she  do,  I  am  free  once  more!  And  then — then  I 
will  dare  to  ask,  for  I  can  ask  without  dishonor,  if  Clara  can  explain  the 
past  and  bless  the  future !  (crosses,  r.) 

Enter  Servant,  r.,  with  a  letter  on  a  salver  ;  Evelyn  takes  it.     Exit  Ser- 
vant, r. 

Eve.  (after  reading  it).  The  die  is  cast — the  dream  is  over.  Generous 
girl  !     Oh,  Georgina  !     I  will  deserve  you  yet. 

Graves    Georgina!  is  it  possible  1 

Eve.  And  the  delicacy,  the  womanhood,  the  exquisite  grace  of  this  ! 
How  we  misjudge  the  depth  of  the  human  heart!  How,  seeing  the 
straws  on  the  surface,  we  forget  that  the  pearls  may  lie  hid  below  !  I 
innginerl  her  incapable  of  this  devotion. 

Gravrs.  And  1,  too. 

Evk.  It  were  base  in  me  to  continue  this  trial  a  moment  longer;  I 
will  write  at  once  to  undeceive  that  generous  heart,  (goes  to  r.  table  and 
writes.) 

Graves.  I  would  have  given  £1,000  if  that  little  jade  Clara  had  been 
beforehand.  But  just  like  my  luck;  if  I  want  a  man  to  marry  one  wo- 
man, he's  sure  to  marry  another  on  purpose  to  vex  me. 

Eve.  Graves,  willyou  ring  the  bell  ?  (Graves   rings  bell,  l.) 

Enter  Servant,  r. 

Take  this  instantly  to  Miss  Vesey  ;  say  I  will  call  in  an  hour,  (exit  Ser- 
vant) And  now  Clara  is  resigned  forever.  Why  does  my  heart  sink 
wit'iin  me?  Why,  why,  looking  to  the  fate  to  come,  do  1  see  only  the 
memory  of  what  has  been  ?  (goes  toward*  l.) 

G  saves.   You  are  re-engaged  then  to  Georgina? 

Eve.  Irrevocably. 

Enter  Servant,  r.,  announcing  Lady  Franklin  and  Miss  Douglas. 

Lady  F.  My  dear  Evelyn,  you  may  think  it  strange  to  receive  such 
visitors  at  this  momont;  but,  indeed,  it  is  no  time  for  ceremony.  We 
are  your  relations — it  is  reported  you  are  about  to  leave  the  country — 
we  come  to  ask  frankly  what  we  can  do  to  serve  you  ! 

Eve    Madam — I 

Lady  F.  Come,  come — do  not  hesitate  to  confide  in  us;  Clara  i=  less 


ACT   V.]  MONEY.  57 

a  stranger  to  you  than  I  am  ;  your  friend  here  will  perhap.s  let  me  con- 
sult with  him.  (cross- s  and  speaks  aside  to  Graves)  Let  us  leave  them  to 
themselves. 

Graves.  You're  an  angel  of  a  widow  ;  but  you  come  too  late,  as  what- 
ever is  good  for  anything  generally  does,  (they  retire  into  the  inner-room, 
oi'.i  of  sight,  the  doors  of  which  should  be  partially  open.) 

Eve.  (l  ).  Miss  Douglas,  I  may  well  want  words  to  thank  you !  this 
goodness — this  sympathy 

Clara  (b.,  abandoning  herself  to  her  emotion').  Evelyn!  Evelyn!  Do 
not  talk  thus!  Goodness!  sympathy — I  have  learned  all — alt!  It  is 
for  me  to  speak  of  gratitude  '.  What!  even  when  I  had  so  wounded  you 
— when  you  believed  me  mercenaiy  and  cold — when  yon  thought  that  1 
was  blind  and  base  enough  not  to  know  you  for  what  you  are;  even  at 
that  time  you  thought  but  of  my  happiness — my  fortunes — my  fate!  — 
And  to  you — you — I  owe  all  that  lias  raised  the  poor  orphan  from  servi- 
tude and  dependence  !  While  your  words  were  so  bitter,  your  deeds  so 
gentle!     Oh,  noble  Evelyn,  this  then  was  your  revenge. 

Eve.  You  owe  me  no  thanks — that  revenge  was  sweet  !  Think  you  it 
was  nothing  to  feel  that  my  presence  haunted  you,  though  you  knew  it 
not? — that  in  things  the  pettiest  as  the  greatest,  which  that  L'oid  could 
buy — the  very  jewels  you  wore — the  very  robe  in  which,  to  other  eyes, 
you  might  seem  more  fair — in  all  in  which  you  took  the  woman's  young 
and  innocent  delight — 1  had  a  part — a  share  !  that,  even  if  separated 
forever — even  if  another's — even  in  distant  years — perhaps  in  a  happy 
home,.listening  to  sweet  voices  that  might  call  you  "  mother  !" — even 
then  should  the  uses  of  that  dross  bring  to  your  lips  one  smile — that 
smile  was  mine — due  to  me — due  as  a  sacred  debt,  to  the  hand  that  you 
rejected — to  the  love  that  you  despised  ! 

ClA3A.  Despised  !  See  the  proof  ihat  I  despise  you — see ;  in  this 
hour,  when  they  say  you  are  agaiu  as  poor  as  before,  I  forget  the  world 
— my  pride — perhaps  too  much  my  sex  ;  I  remember  but  your  sorrows 
— I  am  here  ! 

Eve.  And  is  this  the  same  voice  that,  when  I  knelt  at  your  feet— when 
I  asked  but  one  d<t>i  the  hope  to  call  you  miue — spoke  only  of  poverty, 
and  answered,  li  Never  ?' 

Clara.  Because  I  had  been  unworthy  of  your  love  if  I  had  insured 
your  misery!  Evelyn,  hear  me!  My  father,  like  you,  was  poor — gen- 
erous; gifted,  like  you,  with  genius — ambition  ;  sensitive,  like  you,  to 
the  least  breath  of  insult.  He  married,  as  you  would  have  done — mar- 
ried one  whose  only  dower  was  penury  and  care  !  Alfred,  I  saw  that 
genius  the  curse  to  itself — I  saw  that  ambition  wither  to  despair — I  saw 
the  struggle — the  humiliation — the  proud  man's  agony — the  bitter  life — 
the  early  death — and  heard  over  his  breathless  clay  my  mother's  groan 
of  self-reproach!  Alfred  Evelyn,  now  speak!  Was  the  woman  you 
loved  so  nobly  to  repay  you  with  such  a  doom  1 

Eve    Clara,  we  should  have  shared  it. 

Clara.  Shared  .'  Never  let  the  woman  who  really  loves  comfort  her 
selfishness  with  such  delusion  !  In  marriages  like  this,  the  wife  cannot 
share  the  burden  ;  it  is  he — the  husband  —  to  provide,  to  scheme,  to  work. 
to  endure — to  grind  out  his  strong  heart  at  the  miserable  wheel !  The 
wife,  alas  !  cannot  share  the  struggle — she  cau  but  witness  the  despair  ! 
And  therefore,  Alfred.  I  rejected  you. 

Eve.  Yet  you  believe  me  as  poor  now  as  I  was  then  1 

Clara.  But  Jam  not  poor;  we  are  not  so  poor.  Of  this  fortune, 
which  is  all  your  own — if,  as  I  hear,  one-half  would  free  you  from  your 
debts,  why,  we  have  the  other  half  still  left.  Evelyn,  it  is  humble — but 
it  is  not  penury.     You  know  me  now. 


58  HOHEY.  [.ACT  V. 

Eve.  Know  you  !  Bright  angel,  too  excellent  for  man's  harder  nature 
to  understand— at  least  it  is  permitted  me  to  revere.  Why  were  such 
blessed  words  not  vouchsafed  to  me  before  ? — why,  why  come  they  now 
— too  late  1     Oli,  Heaven — too  late  ! 

Clara.  Too  late  !     What,  then,  have  I  said  1 

Eve.  Wealth!  what  is  it  without  you"?  With  you,  I  recognize  its 
power  ;  to  forestall  your  every  wish — to  smooth  your  every  path — to 
make  all  that  life  borrows  from  Grace  and  Beauty  your  ministrant  and 
handmaid  ; — why,  that  were  to  make  geld  indeed  a  god !  But  vain — 
vain — vain  !  Bound  by  every  tie  of  faith,  gratitude,  loyalty,  and  honor, 
to  another ! 

Clara.  Another !  Is  she,  then,  true  to  your  reverses  ?  I  did  not 
knowthis — lixlee.l  I  did  not !  And  I  have  thus  betrayed  myself  !  {aside) 
0,  shame  !  l.e  must  despise  me  now  !  ^Clara  goes  up  and  sits  at  tabic,  it.) 

Enter  Sin  John,  r.  ;  at  the  same  time  Gi:aves  and  Ladv  Franklin  ad- 
vance from  the  inner  room. 

Sir  J.  (with  dignity  and  franlness).  Evelyn,  I  was  hasty  yesterday. 
You  must  own  it  natural  that  I  should  be  so.  But  Georgina  has  been 
so  urgent  in  your  defence — (as  Lady  Franklin  comes  down,  r.)  Sister, 
just  shut  the  door,  will  you  1— that  I  cannot  resist  her.  What's  money 
without  happiness  '?  So  give  me  your  security  ;  for  she  insists  on  lend- 
ing you  the  £10,000. 

Eve.  I  know,  and  have  already  received  it. 

Sir  J.  (c. — aside).  Already  received  it !  Is  he  joking  1  Faith,  for 
the  last  two  days  I  believe  I  have  been  living  amongst  the  Mysteries  of 
U  lo'pho  !  (aloud)  Sister,  have  you  seen  Georgina  1 

Lady  F.  (r.).  Not  since  she  went  out  to  walk  in  the  square. 

Siu  J.  {aside).  She's  not  in  the  square,  nor  the  house — where  the 
deuce  can  the  girl  be  1 

Eve.  1  have  written  to  Miss  Vesey — I  have  asksd  her  to  fix  the  day 
for  our  wedding. 

Sir  J.  {joyfully).  Have  you?  Go,  Lady  Franklin,  find  her  instantly 
— she  must  be  back  by  this  time;  take  my  carriage— it  is  but  a  step — 
you  will  not  be  two  minutes  gone,  (aside)  I'd  go  myself,  but  I'm  afraid 
of  leaving  him  a  moment  while  he's  in  such  excellent  dispositions. 

Lady  F.  (repulsing  Clara,  who  rises  to  follow).  No,  no  ;  stay  till  I  re- 
turn. [Exit,  r. 

Sir  J.  And  don't  be  down-hearted,  my  dear  fellow  ;  if  the  worst  come 
to  the  worst,  you  will  have  everything  1  can  leave  you.  Meantime,  if  I 
can  in  any  way  help  you 

Eve.  Ha  ! — you  ! — yen,  too  1  Sir  John,  you  have  seen  my  letter  to 
Miss  Vesey  ? — (aside)  or  could  she  have  learned  the  truth  before  she  ven- 
tured to  be  generous  ? 

Sir  J.  No  !  on  my  honor.  I  only  just  called  at  the  door  on  my  way 
from  Lord  Spend — that  is,  from  the  City.  Georgina  was  out ; — was  ever 
anything  so  unlucky?  (Voices  without — "Hurrah — hurrah!  Blue  for 
ever  !")  What's  that  1 

Enter  Sharp,  r. 

Sharp.  Sir,  a  deputation  from  Groginhole — poll  closed  in  an  hour — 
you  are  returned  !     Holloa,  sir — holloa  ! 

Eve.   (aside).  And  it  was  to  please  Clara  ! 

Sir  J.  Mr.  Sharp — Mr.  Sharp — I  say,  how  much  has  Mr.  Evelyn  lost 
by  Messrs.  Flash  and  Co.  1 

Sharp.  Oh,  a  great  deal,  sir — a  great  deal  ! 


ACT  V.]  MONEY.  59 

Sir  J.  (alarmed).   How  ? — a  great  ileal  ! 

Eve.  Speak  the  truth,  Sharp — concealment  is  all  over,  [goes  up  the 
stage. ) 

Sharp.   £223  63.  8.1. — a  great  sum  to  throw  away  ! 

Sir  J.  Eh  !  what,  my  dear  boy  1 — what  V  Ha!  ha!  all  liumbu_r,  was 
it  1 — all  humbus  !  So,  Mr.  Sharp,  isn't  he  ruined,  after  all  ? — not  the 
least  wee,  rascally  little  bit  in  the  world  ruined'? 

Sharp.  Sir,  lie  has  never  even  lived  up  to  his  income. 

Sir  J.  Worthy  man  !  1  could  jump  up  to  the  ceiling  !  I  am  the  hap- 
piest father-in-law  in  the  three  kingdoms.  (Jcnock'ng,  n.)  And  that's  my 
sister's  knock,  too ! 

Clara  {rises,  r.).  Since  I  was  mistaken,  cousin — since  now  you  do  not 
need  me — forget  what  has  passed  ;  my  business  here  is  over.     Farewell  ! 

Eve.  Could  you  but  see  my  heart  at  this  moment,  with  what  love,  what 
veneration,  what  anguish  it  is  filled,  you  would  know  how  little,  in  the 
great  calamities  of  life,  fortune  is  really  worth.  And  must  we  part  now, 
— ii'.iv,  when — when — I 

Enter  Lady  Franklin  and  Georgina,  r.,  followed  by  Blount,  icho  looks 
s/ig  and  embarrassed  ;  Clara  retires  and  goes  to  l.  table. 

Graves.  Georgina  herself — then  there's  no  hope. 

Sir  J.  (l — aside).  What  the  deuce  brings  that  fellow  Blount  here? 
(aloud)  Georgy,  my  dear  Georay,  I  want  to 

Eve.  (a).  Stand  back,  Sir  John ! 

Sir  J.  But  I  must  speak  a  word  to  her — I  want  to 

Eve.  Stand  back,  I  say — not  a  whisper — not  a  sign.  If  your  daugh- 
ter is  to  be  my  wife,  to  her  heart  only  will  1  look  for  a  reply  to  mine. — 
Georgina,  it  is  true,  then,  that  you  trust  me  with  your  confidence — your 
fortune?  It  is  also  true,  that  when  you  did  so  you  believed  me  ruined  ? 
Oh,  pardon  the  doubt!  Answer  as  if  your  father  stood  not  there — an- 
swer me  from  that  truth  the  world  cannot  yet  have  plucked  from  your 
soul — answer  me  as  woman's  heart,  yei  virgin  and  unpolluted,  should 
answer  to  one  who  has  trusted  to  it  his  all  ! 

Geor.  (r.  c. — aside).  What  can  he  mean  1 

Sir  J.  (l.  c. — making  sii/ns).  She'll  not  look  this  way — she  will  not — 
hang  her — II  km  ! 

Eve.  You  falter.     I  implore — I  adjure  you — answer  ! 

Lady  F.  Spealt !  (Sir  John  makes  an  effort  to  speak  ;  Evelyn  observes 
it.) 

Evf.  Silence,  Sir  John  ! 

Geor.  Mr.  Evelyn,  your  fortune  might  well  dazzle  me,  as  it  dazzled 
others.     Believe  me,  I  sincerely  pity  your  reverses. 

Sir  J.  Good  girl! — you  hear  her,  Evelyn. 

Geor.  What's  money  without  happiness  1 

Sir  J.  Clever  creature  ! — my  own  sentiments! 

Geor.  And  so,  as  our  engagement  is  now  annulled 

Eve.    Annulled  ! 

Geor.  Papa  told  me  so  this  very  morning — I  have  promised  my  hand 
where  I  have  given  my  heart — to  Sir  Frederick  Blount.  (Clara  goes 
down,  l.) 

Sir  J.  I  told  you — I — No  such  thing — no  such  thing  ;  you  friqhten 
her  out  of  her  wits — she  don't  know  what's  she's  saying  !  (goes  up  and 
over  to  R.) . 

Eve.  Am  I  awake  1     But  this  letter — this  letter,  received  to-day 

Lady  F.  >  looking  over  the  fatter).  Drummond's — from  a  banker  ! 

Eve.  Real— read  ! 


60  MONEY.  [ACT  V. 

Lady  F.  "  £10  000  just  placed  to  your  account — from  the  same  un- 
known friend  to  Evelyn."  Oh,  Clara,  I  know  now  why  you  went  to 
Drummond's  this  morning. 

Eve.  Clara  !  What ! — and  the  former  note  with  the  same  signature, 
on  the  faith  of  which  I  pledged  my  hand  and  sacrificed  my  heart 

Lady  F.  Was  written  under  my  eyes,  and  the  secret  kept  that 

Eve.  I  see  it  all — how  could  I  be  so  blind?  I  am  free  ! — I  am  re- 
leased ! — Clara,  you  forgive  me  1 — you  love  me  1 — you  are  mine  !  We 
are  rich — rich  !  I  can  give  you  fortune,  power — I  can  devote  to  you 
my  whole  life,  thought,  heart,  soul — 1  am  all  yours,  Clara — my  own — 
my  wife  !   (kneels;  she  gives  him  Iter  hand ;  they  embrace.) 

Sir  J.  (to  Gkorgixa).  A  pretty  mess  you've  made,  to  humbug  your 
own  father !  And  you  too,  Lady  Franklin — I  am  to  thank  you  for  this  ! 
(Evelyn  places  Clara  in  a  chair  tip  l.) 

Lady  F.  You've  to  thank  me  that  she's  not  now  on  the  road  to  Scotland 
with  Sir  Frederick.  I  chanced  on  them  by  the  Park  just  in  time  to  dis- 
suade and  save  her.  But,  to  dp  her  justice,  a  hint  of  your  displeasure 
was  sufficient. 

Geor.  [half -sobbing).  And  you  know,  papa,  you  said  this  very  morn- 
ing that  poor  Frederick  bad  been  very  ill-used,  and  you  would  settle  it 
all  at  the  club. 

Blount.  Come,  Sir  John,  you  can  only  blame  yourself  and  Evelyn's 
cunning  device.  After  all,  I'm  no  such  vewy  bad  match  ;  and  as  for 
the  £10,000 

Eve  I'll  double  it.  Ah,  Sir  John,  what's  money  without  happiness? 
(slaps  Sir  John  on  the  shoulder  and  retires.) 

Sir  J.  Pshaw — nonsense — stuff!     Don't  humbug  me  ! 

Lady  F.  But  if  you  don't  consent,  she'll  have  no  husband  at  all. 

Sir  J.  Hum  !  there's  something  in  that,  (aside  to  Evelyn)  Double  it, 
will  you'?  Then,  settle  it  all  tightly  on  her.  Well — well — my  foible  is 
not  avarice.  Blount,  make  her  happy.  Child,  I  forgive  you.  (pinching 
her  arm)  Ugh,  you  fool !  (Blount  aWGeorgina  go  up,  l.) 

Gravks  (comes  forward  with  Lady  Franklin).  I'm  afraid  it's  catch- 
ing. What  say  you  1  I  feel  the  symptoms  of  matrimony  creeping  all 
over  me.     Shall  we,  eh  ?     Frankly,  now,  frankly 

Ladv  F.  Frankly,  now,  there's  my  hand. 

Graves.  Accepted.  Is  it  possible  ?  Sainted  Maria !  thank  Heaven 
you  are  spared  this  affliction  !  (goes  up  c.) 

Enter  Smooth,  r. 

Smooth.  How  d'ye  do,  Alfred  1  I  intrude,  I  fear !  Quite  a  family 
party. 

Blount.  Wish  us  joy,  Smooth — Georgina's  mine,  and 

Smooth.  And  our  four  friends  there  apparently  have  made  up  another 
rubber.  John,  my  dear  boy,  yon  look  as  if  you  had  something  a*  stake 
on  the  odd  trick,  (crosses  to  l.) 

Sir  J.  Sir,  your  very — Confound  the  fellow — and  he's  a  dead  shot,  too ! 

Enter  Stout  and  Glossmore  hastily,  talking   with  each  other,  r. 

Gloss.  My  dear  Evelyn,  you  were  out  of  humor  yesterday — but  I  for- 
give you.  (Evelyn    takes  his  hand.) 

Stout.  Certainly  !  (Evelyn  crosses,  c.)  what  would  become  of  public 
life  if  a  man  were  obliged  to  be  two  days  running  in  the  same  mind  1 — I 
rise  to  explain.     Just  heard  of  your  return,  Evelyn.     Congratulate  you. 


ACT  V.]  MONET.  61 

The  great  motion  of  the  session  is  fixed  for  Friday.     We  count  on  your 
vote.     Progress  with  the  times. 

Gloss.  Preserve  the  Constitution  ! 

Stout.  Your  money  will  do  wonders  for  the  party  !     Advance  ! 

Gloss.  The  party  respects  men  of  your  property.     Slick  fast ! 

Eve.  I  have  the  greatest  respect,  I  assure  you,  for  the  worthy  and  in- 
telligent flies  upon  both  sides  of  the  wheel  ;  but  whether  we  go  too  fast 
or  too  slow  doe3  not,  I  fancy,  depend  so  much  on  the  flies  as  on  the  Stout 
f!  mtleman  who  sits  inside  and  pays  the  post-hoys.  Now,  all  my  politics 
as  yet  is  to  consider  what's  best  for  the  Stout  Gentleman  ! 

Bth.  Meaning  John  Bull.      Ce  chcr,  old  John!  (Evelyn  crosses  to 
i  and  takes  his  hand.) 

Eve.  Smooth,  we  have  yet  to  settle  our  first  piquet  account  and  our 
last.  And  I  sincerely  thank  you  for  the  service  you  have  rendered  to 
me,  and  the  lesson  you  have  given  these  gentlemen,  {returns  to  c. ;  all 
the  characters  take  their  positions  for  the  end.  Turning  to  Clara)  Ah, 
Clara,  you — you  have  succeeded  where  wealth  had  failed  !  You  have 
reconciled  me  to  the  world  and  to  mankind.  My  friends — we  must  con- 
fess it — amidst  the  humors  and  the  follies,  the  vanities,  deceits,  and 
vices  that  play  their  parts  in  the  greit  Comedy  of  Life — it  is  our  own 
fault  if  we  do  not  find  such  natures,  though  rare  and  few,  as  redeem  the 
rest,  brightening  the  shadows  that  are  flung  from  the  form  and  body  of 
the  time  with  glimpses  of  the  everlasting  holiness  of  truth  and  love. 

Graves.  But  for  the  truth  and  the  love,  when  found,  to  make  us  tol- 
erably happy,  we  should  not  be  without 

Lady  F.  Good  health  ; 

Graves.  Good  spirits ; 

Clara.  A  good  heart ; 

Smooth.  An  innocent  rubber; 

Geor.  Congenial  tempers  ; 

Blount.  A  pwoper  degwee  of  pwudence  ; 

Stout.  Enlightened  opinio 

Gloss.  Constitutional  principles ; 

Sir  J.  Knowledge  of  the  world  ; 

Eve.  And — plenty  of  money  ! 

Disposition  of  the  Characters  at  the  fall  of  the  Curtain. 


BLOl'NT. 

Clara.             Evelyn. 

Lady  Franklin. 

Gbokgina. 

Glossmore. 
Stout. 

Graves. 
Smooth. 
Sir  John, 

r. 

l. 
CUETAIX. 

RICHELIEU 


COPTBIGHT,  1875,  BY  ROBERT  M.  DE  WlTT. 


IUCIIELIEU. 


ORIGINAL  CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

Theatre  Royal,  Covent     Wallaces  Old  National 

Garden,  London,  Theatre,  JVetv  York, 

J  839.  S  pt   4,  1339. 

Louis  XIII.,  King  of  France Mr.  Elton.  Mr.  Walton. 

Gaston,  Duke  of  Orleans  (Brother  to 

the  King) Mr.  Diddear.  Mr.  Powell 

Baradas  (the  King's  Favorite) Mr.  Wabds.  Mr.  G.  Jameson. 

Cardinal  Richelieu Mr.  Macready.  Mr.  Edwin  Forrkst. 

The  Chevalier  de  Mauprat Mr.  Anderson.  Mr.  J.  W.  Wallace, Jr. 

The  Sieur  de  Beringhen  (in  attendance 
on  the  King— one  of  the  Conspir- 
ators)  Mr.  F.  Vining.  Mr.  Horncastle. 

Clermont  (a  Courtier) 

Joseph,  a  Capuchin  Monk  (Richelieu's 

Confidant) Mr.  Phelps.  Mr.  A.  J.  Neafie. 

Frangois  (First  Page  to  Richelieu) Mr.  Howe.  Mrs.  W.  Sefton. 

Huguet  (an  Officer  of  Richelieu's  House- 
hold Guard— a  Spy) Mr.  G.  Bennett. 

First  Courtier Mr.  Roberts. 

}    Mr.  Matthews. 
First,  Second,  and  Third  Secretaries  /    ..      ,.,    ____ 

of  State.  i    w     it- 

\    Mr.  Yarnold. 

Governor  of  the  Bastile Mr.  Waldron. 

Jailer Mr.  Ayltffe. 

Julie  de  Mortemar  (an  Orphan,  Ward 

to  Richelieu) Miss  Helen  Faucit.  Miss  V.  Monier. 

Marion  de  Lorme  (Mistress  to  the  Duke 

of  Orleans,  but  in  Richelieu's  pay).  Miss  Charles.  Mrs.  Rogebs. 

Courtiers,  Pages,  Conspirators,  Officers,  Soldiers,  etc. 


TIME  IN  REPRESENTATION-THREE  HOURS  AND  A  QUARTER. 


SCENE.— Paris  and  the  vicinity.     PERIOD.— 1642. 


SCENERY. 


ACT  I.,  Scene  1.— Handsomely  furnished  room  in  the  house  of  Mabion  de  Losses. 

Entrance 


3d  Grooves. 


Table  and 

E.  2  e.    «  \_J  # 
Chairs. 


-3d  Grooves. 


with  curtains. 
Table  and 

*  V  )  *  l.  2  e. 

Chairs. 


B.  1  E. 


At  b.  c.  a  handsome  gilded  table  and  four  chairs;  l.  c.  another  table  and  two 


1UCIIELIEU.  6 

unairs  ;  wine,  fruit,  goblets,  etc  ,  on  table  r.  o.    The  flats  (in  3d  grooves)  represent 
a  handsome  chamber,  d.  l.  f.,  concealed  by  curtains. 
Scene  //.—Room  in  the  Cardinal's  l'alace. 

oth  G. |  Clock  | |  Door.  | 5th  G. 

*      in  recess.        * 

Statue.       Statue.       

Chair.  #  : :  Door  concealed  by  arras. 

E,  4  E.  :   Table.  :  l.  -4  e. 


Door.  .•   Footstool. 

. •   Screen. 

r.  3  E.        *  *  .  L.  3  E. 

s,,it..i  armor  D 

and  sword  rests. 

B.  2  E.  L.  3  E. 


L.  1  E. 


The  walls  are  hung  with  tupestry  in  the  5th  grooves.  A  large  screen  placed  in  a 
slanting  direction,  it.  v.  e.  A  dour  behind  the  arras,  l.  u.  e.  ;  door  l.  h.  f.  ;  a  rude 
flock  in  recess,  c.,  over  it  a  bust;  weapons  and  banners  hung  about;  statues  at 
back,  it.  c,  l.  c,  and  l.  u.  ,  a  suit  of  armor  r.  c,  and  leaning  ou  a  rack  or  support 
near  it  a  short  sword  and  a  lar-e  two-handed  sword  of  the  period  ;  a  large  antique 
table  with  cover,  c,  upon  which  are  books,  papers,  etc. ;  hand  bell ;  R.  h.  of  table  a 
high  antique  arm-chair,  with  crimson  seat  and  back  ;  by  the  side  of  it  a  footstool. 

ACT  II,  Scene  /.—Apartment  in  De  Haupkat's  new  house.  The  flats  in  3d 
grooves,  and  the  wings  represent  the  interior  of  a  richly  decorated  apartment, 
large  c  isements  r.  c.  and  l.  o.,  hung  with  tapestry,  and  painted  so  as  to  represent 
being  seen  through  the  glass  the  gardens  and  domes  of  the  Luxembourg* Palace. 

Scene  //.—Same  as  Act  I.,  Scene  II. 

ACT  111.,  Scene  /.  —  Richelieu's  Castle  at  Ruelle.  The  scene  represents  a  large 
chamber  iu  the  Gothic  style;  large  doors  c.  of  F  ,  which  are  in  the  4th  grooves; 
doors  i..  h.  and  r.  h.  between  2  and  3  E. ;  window  L.  c.  f.,  through  which  the 
moonlight  shines  now  and  then  ;  the  next  scene  closes  in  on  3d  grooves.  Table  c, 
and  chairs. 

Scene  /T.—Room  in  the  house  of  C  >unt  de  Baradas,  in  the  3d  grooves  ;  merely 
a  representation  of  a  richly-furnished  apartment. 

A  CT IV.,  Scene  /.—The  Gardens  of  the  Louvre.  The  flats  in  4th  grooves  and  the 
wings  represent  beautiful  gardens;  vases,  fountains,  etc.,  extending  in  perspective. 

ACT  V,  Scene  /.—A  corridor  in  the  Bastile.  The  flats  in  the  2d  grooves  repre- 
sent massive,  dismal-looking  stone  walls  ;  door  l.  f.,  with  bolts  and  lock  ;  door  r.  f. 

Scene  II  —The  King's  closet  in  the  Louvre.  The  wings  represent  the  sides  of  a 
gorgeously  fltted-up  apartment.  Folding-doors  r.  f.,  and  the  left  half  of  fiats  rep- 
resent in  perspective  a  succession  of  rich  rooms  or  gallery,  so  that  on  entering  the 
King  and  suite  appear  to  have  traversed  these  apartments.  Two  richly  gilded 
chairs  at  3  e.,  both  sides  ;  afterwards  moved  to  r.  o.  and  l.  c. 


COSTUMES. 
Compiled  Expressly  for  this  Edition  from  the  bfsl  French  works. 

Louis.— A  complete  suit  of  black  velvet ;  shoes,  roses,  and  a  black  plume  ;  the  Cross 
of  St.  Louis  on  his  cloak  and  suspended  round  his  neok. 

Gaston. — Claret-colored  doublet,  cloak,  and  breeches  ending  with  lace  ;  loose  boots 
of  buff  leather ;  hat  and  plume  ;  Cross  of  St.  Louis  upon  the  cloak,  and  the  or- 
der round  the  neck. 


4  RICHEHKU. 

De  Beringhes,  5 

Clermont,  and   £  Similar  styles,  but  of  various  colors. 

COUKT.  3 

Baradas. — Green  velvet  doublet,  cloak,  and  breeches,  slashed  with  yellow  satin, 
trimmed  with  gold;  shoes  and  roses ;  cloak  with  Star  of  St.  Louis  on  it,  order 
round  the  neck 
Cardinal  Richelieu'.— Scarlet  cassock  ;  tippet  of  white  fur  lined  with  scarlet ;  red 

stockings,  shoes,  and  skull  cap;  a  rich  robe  for  the  first  dress. 
De  Maupisat. — \st  Dress  ;  Plain  dark  velvet  doublet,  cloak,  and  breeches,  terminat- 
ing with  lace  ;  lace  ruffles  and  collar  ;  flip  boots;  hat  and  plume.     2d  Dress  : 
Rich   blue  velvet  doublet,  cloak,  and  breeches,  slashed  with  white   satin   and 
trimmed  with   gold  and  lace;  lace  collar,  ruffles,  and  lace  at  end  of  breeches  ; 
shoes  and  roses;  hat  and  feathers.    3d  Dress:  Complete  suit  of  steel  armor. 
Atli  Dress :  Same  as  2d  Dress. 
Joseph — A  monk's  brown  frock,  girdle,  flesh-colored  stockings,  and  plain  sandals 
Huguet.— Buff  jerkin,  large  red  breeclies,  heavy  boots  and  giuntlets;  a  gorget  and 

morion  ;  a  bandoleer  across  the  shoulder. 
Francois. — 1st  Dress :  White  and  red  doublet,  cloak,  and  breeches,  slightly  trim- 
med with  gold  ;  shoes.     2d  Dress :  Buff-ro!ored  jerkin  and  breeches,  steel  back 
and  breast  plates ;  cross  belt  and  waist  belt,  sword  and  boots  and  spurs.     3d 
Dress  :  Plain  jerkin  and  breeches,  with  shoes  and  rosettes ;  cap  with  rosette. 
Capt.  of  Archeks  —Green  jerkin  and  breeches;  waist  belt,  buff  gloves,  and  boots; 

hat  and  feather. 
Secretaries  of  State. — Black  velvet  doublets,  cloaks,  and  breeches  ;  lace  collars 

and  cuffs  ;  shoes  and  rosea. 
Governor  of  Basti i.e.— Dark-colored  doublet  and  breeches  ;  belt,  shoes,  and  roses. 
Jailer. — Dark-colored  plain  jerkin  and  breeches,  with  waist-belt  and  boot-;. 
Guards. — Doublets  with  loose  sleeves  ;  breeches,  stockings,  and   high   shoes  with 
rosettes  ;  the  letter  "  L  "  and  a  crown  embroidered  on  the  breast ;  hat  and  feath- 
ers. 
Pages. — Scarlet  and  purple  doublets,  cloaks,  and  breeches,  slightly  trimmed  with 

gold  ;  shoes  and  rosettes. 
Julie.— White  satin,  trimmed  witli  blue  and  silver;  a  handsome  travelling  wrapper 

for  3d  Act. 
Marion  de  Lorjie. — Amber  and  gold  ;  very  rich  in  jewels  and  ornaments  ;  a  veil 
for  the  2d  Act. 


PROPERTIES. 

ACT  I.,  Scene  1. — Two  richly-giUled  tables  and  six  chairs ;  wine,  fruits,  and  goblets  ; 
dice  and  box;  pieces  of  gold;  swords  for  all;  four  arquebuses;  parchment  for 
Baradas.  Scene  2.— A  large  screen;  large  table  and  cover;  books,  papers, 
writing  materials  ;  quill  pens  ;  a  rude  surt  of  clock  ;  massive  antique  chair  with 
crimson  seat  and  back;  footstool  :  busts;  statues;  weapons  and  banners  scat- 
tered about  and  against  the  wall  ;  suit  of  armor  ;  a  long  sword  and  a  two-han- 
dled sword  ;  small  bell  on  table  ;  carbine  for  Huguet. 

ACT  II.,  Scene  1.— Large  sheet  of  paper  with  seal  attached  for  Baradas;  parchment 
scroll  for  him;  table  napkin  for  De  Berisghen.  Scene  2.— As  in  Act  I.,  Scene 
2,  but  with  purse  and  gold  on  table.  • 

ACT  III.,  Scene  1.— Antique  table  with  chairs  ;  books;  purse  with  gold  pieces  for 
Franc  us  ;  lamp  on  table  ;  suit  of  armor  and  sword  for  De  Mauprat  ;  antique 
couch  and  fittings.    Scene  2.— Parchment  for  Baradas  ;  cross-bows  for  Archers. 

ACT IV.,  Scene  1.— Aiquebuses  for  Guards  ;  parchment  for  warrant. 

ACT  V.,  Scene  1.— Keys  for  Jailfb  ;  folded  paper  as  a  passport;  sealed  packet  for 
De  Beringhf.n.  Scene2.— Watch  for  Baradas  ;  papers  and  large  portfolios  for 
the  three  Secretaries  ;  two  gilded  chairs ;  parchment  as  before,  and  also  sealed 
packet. 


KICnELIEU. 


TEE  STORY  OF  THE  PLAY. 

The  openingof  the  play  occurs  during  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII.,  King  of  France, 
at  a  period  when  the  Cardinal  Richelieu  had  risen  high  into  power,  having  gradu- 
ally but  firmly  worked  his  way  up  in  a  progressive  journey  of  many  years.  But  the 
weakness  of  the  monarch,  and  the  grand  intellect,  coupled  with  firmness,  indeed, 
severity,  of  the  minister  operated  to  produce  a  spirit  of  discontent  in  the  court, 
which  had  culminated  in  a  powerful  conspiracy,  not  for  the  love  of  nation,  but  for 
personal  aggrandizement.  Upon  this  state  of  things  starts  the  play.  Some  idea  of 
the  character  of  the  Cardinal,  and  the  position  of  affairs,  both  before  and  at  this 
time,  are  shown  in  the  elegant  "preface"  of  the  distinguished  author,  and  by  the 
"  Remarks  "  which  accompany  the  present  edition. 

At  the  commement  of  the  play,  Gaston,  Duke  of  Orleans,  brother  to  the  King,  has 
formed  a  conspiracy  for  his  dethronement,  and  possessing  power,  rank,  and  influ- 
ence, has  enlisted  on  his  side,  not  only  Baradas,  the  King's  favorite,  and  one  of  his 
chief  officers,  but  many  other  courtiers  and  presumed  supporters  of  the  crown;  not 
the  least  amongst  them  being  the  Due  do  Bouillon,  one  of  the  great  leaders  of  the 
French  Army,  then  operating  against  the  Spaniards  ;  tor  it  is  upon  his  support  and 
that  of  his  soldiers,  that  the  hopes  of  the  conspirators  rest— hence,  the  importance 
attached  to  the  "  dispatch  "  introduced  in  the  play. 

The  meetings  are  held  at  the  house  of  Marion  de  Lorme,  a  fascinating  beauty, 
mistress  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  but  hone-tly  in  the  service  and  pay  of  the  Cardinal. 
It  is  at  oue  of  these  meetings  the  play  opens. 

Biradas  reveals  to  Orleans  the  proposed  scheme  for  the  Due  do  Bouillon  forsak- 
ing his  allegiance  to  the  King  of  France — joining  his  troops  with  those  of  his  enemy, 
the  King  of  Spain ;  then  marching  on  to  Paris— dethroning  the  King,  appointing 
Orleans  Regent — and  Baradas  and  the  other  lords  members  of  the  Council,  when 
they  would  carry  out  more  fully  a  preliminary  treaty  with  Spain  for  an  increase  of 
wealth  and  power— and  he  produces  the  parchment  to  be  signed  by  all  who  join  in 
the  compact. 

The  Duke  of  Orleans  suggests,  however,  that  Richelieu,  with  his  well-known 
argus  eyes  and  secret  powers  and  appliances,  might  gain  information  of  their 
schemes,  and  then — •'  pood  bye  to  life  !" 

Such  a  suggestion,  however,  B  ir  idas  meets  boldly,  and  suggests,  that  whilst  the 
dispatch,  when  duly  signed,  is  sent  to  the  Due  de  Bouillon,  the  Cardinal,  must,  by 
some  trusty  hand,  be  sent  to  Heaven.  To  consider  further,  a  meeting  tor  the 
morrow  is  appointed. 

Amongst  the  comp  iny  present  is  a  young  courtier — the  Chevalier  de  Mauprat— 
gay,  dashing,  brave,  and  of  good  birth,  in  fact,  a  Don  Caesar  de  Bazan  of  that  period. 
He  has  been  induced  to  play— lost  all — and  there  is  nothing  left  but  his  honor  and 
his  sword.  The  courtiers,  therefore,  having  no  more  money  to  gain,  leave  him  to 
himself;  but  Btradas,  keen-sighted  and  foreseeing,  detects  the  presence  of  some 
grievance  on  his  mind  which  will  make  him  a  ready  tool  for  the  purposes  of  the  con- 
spiracy, and  remains  to  question  him.  He  s  ion  learns  that  hating  the  Cardinal, 
and  under  the  influence  and  control  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  De  Mauprat,  some  time 
previously  had  joined  iu  a  revolt  against  the  King,  in  the  Provinces,  and  aided  by  a 
number  of  daring,  reckless  spirits  like  himself,  had  gone  so  fir  as  to  seize  upoa  a 
small  town  and  hoist  the  flag  of  rebellion.  Orleans,  when  he  found  affairs  getting 
had,  and  that  he  would  be  compelled  to  retre  it,  insisted  that  this  had  been  done 
without  his  order  or  authority,  an  1  consequently,  when  he  and  his  companions,  be- 
ing compelled  to  yield,  receivel  a  general  amnesty,  the  name  of  De  Mauprat  was 
erased  from  the  pardon,  Richelieu  telling  him  to  go  and  join  the  army  then  fighting 
against  the  Spaniards,  and  m  -vt  a  Boldier's  fate  rather  than  end  his  life  upon  a 
traitor's  scaffold,  beneath  the  headsman's  axe.  He  proceeds  to  the  seat  of  war,  fights 
valiantly,  and  returns  ;  not  to  meet  praise  from  the  Cardinal,  but  the  severest  cen- 
sure, with  an  intimation  that  though  he  has  escaped  the  sword  the  axe  may  one  day 
fill. 


G  RICHELIEU. 

Upon  this  information,  Baradas  endeavors  to  induce  him  to  side  against  the  Car- 
dinal, but  De  M  mprat  knows  his  immense  powjr  and  is  proof  against  the  tempta- 
tion ;  whereupon,  B  iradas  hints  artfully,  that  he  loves  the  beautiful  Julie  de  Slor- 
temar,  an  orphan,  under  the  Cardinal's  protection,  of  whom  he  is  himself  deeply- 
enamored.  The  shot  is  well  aimed  ;  Ue  Mauprat  confesses  to  possess  an  antipathy  to 
Richelieu,  and  at  the  same  time  admits  his  love  for  Julie — at  this  moment  the  order 
for  his  arrest  arrives,  and  before  further  treaty  can  be  made,  he  is  conducted  away. 

Baradas  rejoices  ;  in  youth,  strength  valor,  and  now  in  love  he  had  always  been 
De  Mauprat's  inferior— but  with  his  rival  removed,  success  lay  before  him.  Although 
the  King,  it  was  rumored,  also  loved  Julie,  he  was  determined  to  wed  her— to  be- 
come Minister  of  France — and  by  the  aid  of  the  parchment,  when  signed,  and  the 
assistance  of  the  Due  do  Bouillon  and  the  Spanish  Army  lie  would  accomplish  ; 
dethrone  the  King,  and  "  all  in  despite  of  my  Lord  Cardinal." 

The  scene  then  shifts  to  Richelieu's  palace,  where  Joseph,  a  Capuchin  monk,  and 
his  confidant,  is  acquainting  him  of  the  traitorous  plot  that  is  in  progress  -the  par- 
ties concerned  in  it,  and  further,  that  the  King  has  been  charmed  by  Julie.  Riche- 
lieu is  grieved  to  hear  this,  b  it  with  a  firm  conceit  and  consciousness  of  his  extraor- 
dinary power,  he  declares  emphatically  that  the  King  must  have  no  goddess  but  the 
State — and  that  State  must  be— himself  !  Nothing  daunted,  Joseph  asserts  that 
the  King,  to  conceal  his  love,  and  to  bring  Julie  near  him,  intends  to  cause  her  to  be 
married  to  Baradas.  Richelieu  determines  to  thwart  this  sacrifice,  and  vows  that 
the  only  clasp  round  the  neck  of  Baradas  shall  bo  the  axe,  and  not  the  arms  of  his 
ward. 

Julie  arrives,  and  dispatching  Joseph  to  his  prayers,  Richelieu  feelingly  tells  her 
of  her  father's  friendship,  who,  dying  bequeathed  her  to  Ins  care,  and  that  she  shall 
find  in  him  a  second  father,  who  will  coufer  upon  her  a  dowry  of  wealth,  rank,  and 
love  worthy  of  the  highest  station.  He  closely  and  skillfully  questions  her  of  the 
attentions  paid  her  by  the  King,  Baradas  and  other  courtiers,  but  without  produc- 
ing any  effect,  when  Huguet,  one  of  his  officers,  but  also  a  spy  against  him,  announ- 
ces that  the  Chevalier  de  Mauprat  waits  an  audience.  Julie,  thrown  off  her  guard, 
starts  at  the  name,  and  the  Cardinal  quickly  detects  the  implied  confession  of  love. 

He  commands  her  to  look  higher  for  a  match,  and  warns  her  that  if  she  hates  his 
foes,  she  must  hate  Be  Mauprat ;  but  she  makes  such  an  earnest  appeal  that  his 
sternness  is  disarmed,  and  he  consents  to  blot  out  his  name  from  his  list  of  foes. 

Dismissing  her  into  an  adjoining  chamber,  he  summons  De  Mauprat  to  his  pres- 
ence ;  earnestly  he  reminds  him  of  all  the  past  events,  and  rebukes  him  bitterly  for 
having  since  his  return  passed  his  time  in  wild  and  reckless  living,  and  in  a  keen 
and  smartly-telling  speech,  shows  him  that  to  live  upon  the  means  and  labors  of 
others,  without  the  prospect  of  repaying  them,  is  simply  trickery  and  theft.  His 
debts  must  be  paid;  but  when  De  Miuprat,  answering  boldly,  says  that  he  is  ready 
to  do  so,  but  he  should  be  glad  to  know  where  he  can  borrow  the  money,  the  humor 
of  the  Cardinal  is  touched,  his  severity  relaxed,  and  he  perceives  at  once  that  the 
Chevalier  is  exactly  the  man  to  serve  the  schemes  he  has  in  view,  and  prove  a  friend. 

In  one  of  the  finest  speeches  in  the  play  he  tells  him,  though  men  say  he  is  cruel, 
he  is  not  so  ;  he  is  just,  and  portrays  how  he  has  reconstructed  France,  and  from 
sloth  and  crime,  raised  her  to  wealth  and  power;  that  France  needs  his  aid — and 
though  he  came  to  meet  him  as  a  foe,  he  shall  depart  as  a  friend,  with  honor  and 
wealth  in  store.  De  Mauprat  is,  very  naturally,  completely  astounded  at  this  sud-> 
den  change  ;  under  arrest,  he  came  to  the  interview  with  the  belief  that  after  it,  he 
should  proceed  to  the  Bastile  and  thence  to  the  scaffold  ;  instead  of  which,  there 
comes  an  offer  of  friendship  and  favor,  nay,  more,  the  Cardinal  tells  him  he  is  aware 
of  his  love  for  Julie,  and  offers  her  in  marriage.  De  Mauprat,  feeling  that  the  sen- 
tence of  death  still  hangs  over  him,  and  that  honor  forbids  the  wedding,  refuses. 
In  apparent  anger,  the  Cardinal  directs  his  removal  to  the  adjoining  chamber 
(whither  he  has  already  sent  Julie),  and  with  mock  solemnity  bids  him  prepare  to 
behold  his  execution— that  his  doom  will  be  private — and  to  seek  speedily  for 
Heaven's  mercy. 


RICHELIEU.  / 

Summoning'  Joseph,  the  Cardinal  gives  orders  for  the  preparation  of  the  neces- 
sary deeds,  and  the  arrangement  of  his  house  near  the  Luxembourg  Palace,  as  a 
bridal  present  for  his  ward.  Returning,  overwhelmed  with  surprise  and  joy,  De 
Mauprat  and  Julie  receive  his  congratulations,  and  upon  their  departure,  another 
brief  but  eloquent  and  thrilling  speech,  tells  of  the  great  man's  power  and  his  soul- 
binding,  ardent  love  for  his  country. 

"  France  !  I  love  thee  ! 
All  earth  sha  1  never  pluck  thee  from  my  hand  1 
My  mistress,  France — my  wedded  wife — sweet  France, 
"Who  shall  proclaim  divorce  for  thee  and  me  ?" 

But  the  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth,  and  De  Mauprat's  case  is  no  ex- 
ception. Baradas  has  learned  of  the  marriage — Lold  the  King,  thus  making  him  a 
foe  to  the  husband,  and  exercising  his  influence,  procures  a  royal  warrant,  fori  i  l- 
dicg  De  Mauprat  communicating  with  Julie  by  word  or  letter,  and  so  to  continue 
until  the  formal  annulment  of  the  marriage  is  obtained,  it  being  illegal.  The  sen- 
tence of  death  was  still  in  force;  Julie  was  a  lady  of  the  Court,  and  as  such,  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  France,  could  not  lawfully  be  married  without  the  King's  permis- 
sion. Armed  with  this  order,  Baradas  repairs  to  De  Mauprat's  house  immedi  itely 
after  the  wedding,  and  meeting  him,  artfully  and  skillfully  points  out,  that  all  which 
has  taken  place  is  only  part  of  a  wily,  ambitious  scheme  of  Richelieu's — the  King 
loves  Julie— to  encourage  this  will  increase  the  Cardinal's  position  and  power— to 
avoid  scandal  she  must  first  be  married  to  some  one,  and  in  selecting  T>3  Mauprat, 
he  had  gratified  two  passions — ambition,  by  the  grandeur  of  his  ward,  and  vengeance 
by  the  dishonor  of  his  foe.  So  skillfully,  and  with  such  subtlety  is  the  story  to.'d 
that  De  Mauprat  believes  it;  his  anger  is  unbounded— again  the  tempter  strikes, 
calling  upon  him  to  join  the  conspiracy  ;  with  Richelieu  dead,  and  Baradas  Prime 
Minister,  all  will  be  forgotten  Maddened  with  the  thoughts  of  how  basi  ly  he  has 
been  deceived,  De  Mauprat  refuses  to  listen,  and  quits  the  spot ;  but  not  to  escape. 
Another  meeting  is  to  take  place  to-night,  when  the  compact  is  to  be  signed  by  all 
the  League  and  forwarded  to  the  Due  de  Bouillon.  Baradas  determines  that  of 
this  dispatch  De  Mauprat  is  to  know  nothing— he  shall  merely  be  posted  as  a  sentry 
at  the  door— but  he  shall,  be  the  murderer  of  the  Cardinal.  At  this  moment,  De 
Mauprat  returns  in  a  perfect-  state  of  frenzy.  He  has  seen  the  King's  carriage  pass, 
mkI  in  the  blindness  of  his  passion,  imagines  he  saw  within  it — Julie  !  Baradas 
promptly  seizes  the  golden  opportunity,  and  assures  him  that  it  was  so.  Mad  with 
vengeance,  De  Mauprat  believes  him,  consents  to  join  the  conspiracy,  and  swears 
that  only  the  blood  ot  Richelieu  can  obliterate  the  stain  cast  upon  his  honor. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Joseph  has  learned  more  of  the  proceedings,  the  plot  for  the  as- 
sassination, and  the  intended  meeting.  The  story  rouses  up  all  the  latent  energy  of 
■  he  great  Minister  ;  he  speaks  in  glowing  terms  of  the  exploits  of  his  youth,  and 
bids  his  page  bring  to  him  the  double-handed  sword  he  once  wielded  with  such 
force  and  skill.  Alas  !  the  strength  of  youth  has  fled.  Sinking  into  his  chair,  he 
grasps  his  pen— that  is  now  his  weapon— and  ruled  by  a  master  hand— 

"  The  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword  1" 

Marion  arrives  with  further  news  of  the  meeting,  and  with  the  intimation  that 
the  Duke  of  Orleans  had  requested  her  to  find  a  messenger  upon  whose  fidelity  she 
could  rely,  to  convey  dispatches  that  night  to  the  Due  de  Bouillon;  and  she  had 
promised  to  send  her  brother.  This  is  hut  a  subterfuge  to  assist  the  Cardinal,  to 
whom  she  leaves  the  selection;  he  chooses  his  favorite  page,  Francois,  as  being 
voung,  unnoted,  faithful,  brave,  ambitious,  lie  instructs  him  to  arm  himself,  fol- 
low Marion,  obtain  the  packet,  and  upon  the  fleetest  steed  he  can  procure,  bring  it 
to  the  Castle  of  Ruelle,  whither  the  Cardinal  intends  to  go  for  safety.  He  then 
questions  Joseph  as  to  the'  faithfulness  of  Huguet,  who,  unnoticed,  enter.-,  and  01  I  - 
hears  their  conversation,  by  which  he  learns  that  certain  honors  he  is  expecting  are 
to  be  promised  to  him  but  not  granted.  Breathing  vengeance  he  retires  unob- 
served ;  but  returns  shortly  to  receive  instructions  from  the  Cardinal  to  take  steps 


b  RICH  ELI  KU. 

for  guarding  every  outlet  and  passage  of  the  Castle.  "With  triple  walls,  draw-bridge 
and  portcullis,  Huguet  assures  him  that  he  can  with  twenty  men  hold  out  for  a 
month  against  all  comers,  and  he  promises  they  shall  be  well  chosen— from  the  con- 
spirator's ranks. 

It  is  midnight,  and  the  Cardinal  is  at  his  castle,  buried  in  deep  meditation  and 
waiting  with  great  anxiety  the  coming  of  Francois.  He  does  not  wait  long — Fran- 
gois  arrives,  and  falling  at  his  feet,  with  bitter  anguish  tells  him  of  the  loss  of  the 
dispatch.  Baradas  had  objected  to  his  receiving  it,  but  Orleans  overcame  his  scru- 
ples, and  giving  it  to  him  with  a  purse  of  gold,  bade  him  hasten  forward,  promising 
him  thousands  more,  when  Bouillon's  trumpets  should  sound  through  the  streets  of 
Paris. 

As  he  mounted  his  horse,  Marion  came  to  him  in  the  dark,  and  told  him  to  speed 
well,  for  Orleans  had  sworn  that  before  the  morning  dawned,  Richelieu  should  cease 
to  live.  She  fled,  and  at  the  same  momeut,  a  hand  of  iron  fell  upon  him,  and  ere 
he  could  draw  his  sword,  the  packet  was  wrested  from  his  keeping,  whilst  some  one 
exclaimed,  in  a  hoarse  voice  :     "  The  spy  is  spared — the  steel  is  for  his  lord  !" 

Although  almost  overwhelmed,  Richelieu,  in  the  greatness  of  his  powerful  intel- 
lect, is  not  subdued.  The  dispatch  may  yet  be  recovered  ;  and  telling  Frangois  he 
has  lost  that  which  would  have  saved  his  country  and  made  him  great,  he  bids  him 
away,  and  strive  to  regain  it  ;  never  to  see  him  again  until,  by  recovering  it,  he  has 
acquired  the  right  to  do  so — always  bearing  in  mind  there  is  no  such  word  as  "fail." 

After  his  departure,  Julie  reaches  the  castle.  In  bitter  anguish,  she  informs 
Richelieu  that  scarcely  was  she  married  when  the  King  summoned  her  to  the  palace 
—  told  her  the  ceremony  was  unlawful— compelled  her  to  remain — had  even  sought  her 
chamber,  making  overtures  she  had  indignantly  repulsed.  Not  content  with  this, 
Baradas  had  approached  her,  and  declared  his  love,  but  finding  himself  repulsed  and 
defeated,  he  told  her  that  De  Mauprat  was  aware  of  the  King's  passion,  and  had 
only  married  her  to  further  his  own  ends,  by  placing  her  in  the  King's  power.  In 
the  moment  of  agony,  she  applied  to  the  Queen,  revealing  everyihing,  and  by  her 
aid,  she  was  enabled  to  quit  the  palace.  Hastening  home — she  found  no  home — all 
was  desolate — no  husband  was  there  to  meet  her — and  not  being  aware  of  his  arrest, 
she  believed  him  guilty,  and  had  fled  to  the  Cardinal  for  protection.  Richelieu  can 
hardly  bring  his  mind  to  suspect  De  Mauprat;  he  endeavors  to  soothe  Julie,  and 
conducts  her  to  rest.  The  conspirators  have  entered  the  castle,  and  upon  returning 
to  the  chamber,  he  meets  De  Mauprat,  disguised  in  a  suit  of  armor  with  his  vizor 
down,  who  seizes  him.  In  vain  he  calls  for  his  guards  1  With  a  vigorous  effort  he 
releases  himself,  and  in  a  fine  burst  of  passionate  eloquence,  he  tells  him  that  Rich- 
elieu dies  not  by  the  hand  of  man — that  there  is  no  fiend  created  who  would  be  a 
parricide  of  his  native  land  by  daring,  in  killing  Richelieu,  to  murder  France. 

In  bitter  terms,  De  Mauprat  taunts  him  with  having  spared  a  young  soldier,  then 
given  him  a  mock  pardon— and  afterwards  an  angel  for  a  bride,  only  to  heap  upon 
him  dishonor  and  disgrace.  No  mercy  could  now  be  expected — retribution  for  the 
young  soldier  must  follow,  and  the  avenger  was  himself — De  Mauprat.  But  the 
grand  old  Minister  is  cool  and  undaunted  ;  with  stern  dignity  he  orders  his  as- 
sailant to  kneel  and  crawl  for  pardon  ;  he  tells  him  that  what  he  had  done  was  to 
save  Julie  from  the  King,  by  giving  her  a  brave  and  noble  husband  ;  that  she  had 
been  sheltered  by  him  when  her  husband  should  have  done  it,  and  that  she  was  now 
in  the  adjoining  chamber  j  from  whence  she  enters  to  the  amazement  of  the  Cheva- 
lier. 

In  a  few  words  the  fearful  deception  is  explained,  and  the  treachery  of  Baradas 
revealed.  De  Mauprat  informs  the  Cardinal  of  his  danger — that  his  guards  are  not 
his  trusty  soldiers,  but  disguised  conspirators  of  whom  Huguet  is  captain.  Loud 
shouts  of  "  Death  to  the  Cardinal  !"  are  heard  ;  quick  as  lightning,  De  Mauprat  and 
Julie  hurry  him  away,  and  when  Huguet  and  the  other  conspirators  rush  into  the 
chamber,  De  Mauprat  reappears  from  an  adjoining  room,  and  guarding  the  doorway, 
so  that  none  may  pass,  he  points  to  a  couch  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  upon 
which  the  Cardinal  is  laying  apparently  dead.  He  tells  them  that  he  strangled  him 
so  sottly  in  his  sleep,  that  all  the  world  will  say  he  died  a  natural  death  from  ex- 


K.CHELIEC.  [) 

hausted  nature,  and  he  bid*  them  hasten  to  Paris  with  the  news,  wi.ils;  he  r  m  liua 
to  lull  suspicion  and  prepare  for  the  interment. 

The  intelligence  is  swiftly  borne  to  Baradas— now  is  the  time  for  him  to  turn  — 
Julie  must  be  lecovered — he  has  obtained  anotlier  warrant  for  the  arrest  of  De 
Maupraf — Marion  de  Lorme  is  in  prison— and  when  Huguet,  full  of  haste,  i  ishes 
in  to  tell  him  of  the  murder,  he  oils  the  guard,  and  in  spite  of  his  struggles,  and  in 
spite  of  his  attempts  to  inform  bim  that  lie  has  something  of  importance  to  commu- 
nicate— in  fact,  the  missing  packet — be  is  borne  away  to  the  Bastile.  Francois  re- 
turns to  tell  of  the  loss,  and  from  the  circumstance  of  the  man  who  took  the  dis- 
patch, from  him  being  in  armor,  suspicion  at  once  falls  upon  De  Mauprat,  whom 
Baradas  tells  Francois  to  find  without  the  leasf.  delay.  Fortune  throws  them  to- 
gether in  a  remote  part  of  the  palace  gardens — and  Francois  making  known  who  he 
is,  De  Mauprat  tells  him  that  whilst  watching  at  the  house,  thinking  he  was  a  spy, 
he  had  seized  the  packet — and  that  since  then  he  he  bad  given  it  to  — Ilu. 
would  have  said — but  at  that  moment  he  catches  sight  of  Baradas  approaching — 
drawing  his  sword,  he  rushes  to  attack  him,  but  is  seized  by  the  guards,  and  pre- 
vented completing  his  story.  But  the  dead  come  to  life — astonished  and  amazed, 
they  behold  Richelieu  appear  upon  the  scene.  Taking  the  writ,  lie  appeals  to  the 
King  for  clemency,  but  without  success,  nnd  De  Mauprat  is  led  off,  not,  however,  be- 
fore he  tells  Francois  that  he  gave  the  packet  to  Huguet. 

In  a  speech  of  magnificent  force  and  eloquence,  Richelieu  calls  upon  the  King  to 
bear  in  mind  all  be  has  done  for  him,  and  for  France— to  do  him  justice— and  to 
grant  him  protection.  In  vain  the  appeal;  only  when  he  sees  bim  throw  off  his 
haughty  bearing  and  kneels  at  the  throne,  will  the  King  listen  to  his  entreaties. 

Now  is  the  moment  that  Richelieu  feels  the  bitterness  of  the  struggle— yesterday 
he  was  the  Cardinal  King,  the  lord  of  life  and  death — to-day,  a  very  weak  old  m  m. 
Only  the  possession  of  the  dispatch  can  save  him. 

Returning  to  the  palace,  the  King  sends  Clermont  with  an  order  for  Julie  to  pre- 
sent herself  before   him,  but  she  refuses  to  go,  and   in  this  Richelieu   upholds  her. 
B  11 ' adas  arrives  with  a  stern  and  positive   command,  when  in  one  of   the  fine- 
most  telling  speeches  in  the  play,  Richelieu  hurls  defiance  at  the  King,  and  dares 
him  to  take  her  from  his  protection  under  the  penalty  of  the  curse  of  Home. 

The  excitement  is  too  much,  and  the  Cardinal  sinks  exhausted  beneath  it. 

Baradas  believes  that  De  Mauprat  has  the  dispatch,  but  he  does  not  like  to 
have  him  searched,  fearing  that  if  it  should  be  found  upon  him  open,  as  it  undoubt- 
edly would  be,  the  contents  would  be  read  and  male  use  of  against  his  party,  lie 
cannot  yet  visit  him  personally,  being  obliged  to  keep  close  to  the  King  night  and 
day,  to  prevent  any  of  the  Cardinal's  friends  approaching  him  and  whispering  in 
his  ear  words  which  might  disturb  his  influence  and  thwart  his  schemes.  He  Looka 
upon  Huguel's  story  as  a  mere  trick  to  secure  a  respite,  but  to  make  sure,  he  sends 
De  Beringben  to  look  into  the  matter.  Francois,  too,  determined  to  redeem  his 
honor,  tries  his  utmost  to  obtain  admission  to  Huguet,  and  for  that  purpose  hovers 
about  the  prison  gates,  pretending  to  be  his  son.  Joseph  also  makes  every  effort, 
but  not  even  the  threats  of  punishment  from  the  church  can  move  the  Governor  to 
depart  from  the  rules.  "  Fortune  favors  the  brave,"  and  so  it  does  in  this  o  ise — 1 '  ■ 
Beringhen  arrives  with  an  order  to  visit  the  prisoner,  and  being  won  over  by  the 
pathetic  appeal  of  the  presumed  son,  agrees  to  let  him  accompany  bim.  Thrown 
off  his  guard  by  the  order,  and  De  Beringhen 's  entreaties  that  the  boy  may  have  a 
last  word  with  his  parent,  the  <  iovernor  tacitly  consents,  hinting  that  if  when  his 
lordship  comes  out  the  boy  should  slip  in  without  his  noticing  him  it  is  net  his 
fault — it  he  does  not  see  it,  he  cannot  help  it,  and  he  will  therefore  go  his  rounds. 

De  Beringhen  enters  the  prisoner's  cell,  and  with  beating  heart,  does  1 
look  through  the  key-hole.  He  hears  high  words  between  De  Beringhen  and  Hu- 
guet— the  cell  is  dimly  lighted  — they  struggle  in  spite  of  Huguet 's  chains— but  De 
Beringhen  secures  the  packet.  Franjois  hides  behind  the  door,  and  lets  him  pass 
into  the  dark  corridor  when,  dagger  in  hand,  he  springs  upon  him,  tears  the  packet 
from  his  grasp  and  makes  his  escape. 


10 


KICnELIEU. 


In  the  last  scene,  we  find  the  Court  r.nd  all  the  leading  conspirators  assembled, 
laying  plans  for  future  operations. 

The  King-,  thinking  she  has  changed  her  views,  grants  an  audience  to  Julie,  hut 
she  comes  to  appeal  for  her  husband's  pardon,  which  she  does  in  exquisitely  written, 
eloquent,  and  fervent  language. 

The  King  is  moved,  and  directs  Baradas  to  speak  with  her.  He  does  so,  and  of- 
fers that  if  she  will  annul  the  marriage  and  become  his  wife,  the  same  day  shall  Dj 
Maupratbe  free.  With  scorn  and  indignation,  the  chance  is  rejected,  upon  which 
he  summons  the  guards  and  their  prisoner,  who  assures  Julie  that  life  is  short  but 
love  is  immortal.  As  he  is  being  led  off,  the  Cardinal  arrives,  supported  by  Joseph, 
and  apparently  sinking  fast.  He  appeals  to  Baradas  in  his  present  high  position, 
to  grant  him  one  favor— De  Mauprat's  life.  But  the  stakes  are  too  heavy — "My 
head,"  replies  the  Minister,  "  I  cannot  lose  one  trick." 

Seizing  the  opportunity  of  the  King's  return,  the  Cardinal,  to  the  amazement  of 
all  assembled,  announces  his  resignation,  and  calls  upon  his  under  secretaries  to 
read  (heir  reports.  They  show  such  a  state  of  trouble,  revolt,  and  ruin  in  all  the 
surrounding  countries,  whilst  France  alone  is  firm,  made  so,  by  Richelieu's  skillful 
hand,  that  the  King  shudders  to  think  there  is  no  master  mind  like  his  to  succeed 
him; 

At  this  moment,  Francois  enters,  and  as  he  hands  the  dispatch  to  Richelieu  ob- 
serves lowly,  "  I  have  not  failed."  In  an  instant  it  is  placed  in  the  King's  hands. 
"With  horror  and  dismay  the  conspirators  hear  it  read,  and  their  names  repeated. 
The  hour  of  triumph  is  too  much  for  the  Cardinal,  who  sinks  exhausted,  as  a.l 
think,  dying.  The  King  passionately  implores  him  to  live,  if  not  for  his  sake,  for  his 
country — tor  France  !  Like  a  magician's  charm  does  the  word  fall  upon  his  ears, 
and  with  a  superhuman  power,  all  his  latent  energies  revive.  Orders  are  sent  forth 
for  the  arrest  of  the  Due  de  Bouillon  at  the  head  of  his  army —one  by  one,  the  con- 
spirators are  dispatched  to  their  doom— the  death  writ  of  De  Mauprat  thrown  to  the 
winds — happiness  restored — and  the  Cardinal  Minister,  greater  than  ever,  exclaims  ; 

'•  My  own  dear  France— I  have  thee  yet — I  have  saved  thee  ! 
I  clasp  thee  still — it  was  thy  voice  that  call'd  me 
Back  from  the  tomb  !     What  mistress  like  our  country  V 


BE3IABKS. 


The  few  observations  addressed  to  the  reader  of  the  Lady  of  Lyons  (the  first  of  the 
present  new  series  of  Bulwer's  plays)  are  sufficient  notes  of  the  merits  and  high  in- 
tellectual attainments  and  ability  of  the  distinguished  author  of  the  two  plays. 

So  enthusiastically  was  the  Lady  of  Lyons  received,  so  decided  was  its  success  in 
London  and  the  Provinces,  as  well  as  in  the  United  States,  that  he  was  encouraged 
speedily  to  attempt  another  play.  Choosing  for  his  theme  a  broader  and  a  grander 
basis,  he  selected  the  History  of  France  at  a  great  and  momentous  period,  to  fur- 
nish the  requisite  materials. 

"Within  twelve  months  after  the  successful  launch  of  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  viz:  in 
March,  1839,  the  literary  and  dramatic  world  were  gratified  by  the  production  of  one 
of  the  finest  written  and  most  skillfully  constructed  historical  plays  at  any  time 
offered  to  the  public. 

It  was  produced  at  the  same  establishment — the  Theatre  Royal,  Covent  Garden, 
London — and  by  a  comparison  of  the  cast  of  characters,  it  will  be  seen  that  many 
of  the  leading  actors  in  that  play  appeared  in  this — in  parts,  equally,  if  not  more, 
effective ;  at  any  rate  of  a  different  and  more  powerful  nature,  calling  forth  all  their 
energy  and  ability,  and  judging  from  the  criticisms  of  the  time,  they  were  not  found 
wanting. 

In  the  United  States,  where  it  made  its  appearance  very  soon  afterwards,  only  one 


RICHELIEU.  11 

of  the  actors  in  the  Lady  of  Lyons  appeared  in  Richelieu— but  he  wus  a  host  in 
himself — Edwin  Forrest. 

The  author's  preface  to  this  play  is  more  lengthy  than  to  the  former  one,  and  is 
so  beautirully  and  ;0  clearly  worded,  that  it  would  be  the  height  of  presumption  to 
attempt  to  iuterfere  with  it.  But  a  succinct  account  of  the  events  previous  to  the 
commencement  of  the  play,  and  the  exact  position  of  the  chief  persons,  may  prove 
interesting  and  afiord  the  reader  additional  means  for  obtaining  a  clearer  and  more 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  story,  and  a  keener  and  higher  appreciation  of  the 
author's  powers  of  dealing  with  his  subject. 

On  the  13th  of  May,  1G10,  whilst  Henry  IV.,  King  of  France,  was  proceeding  in 
his  carriage  through  the  Rue  de  la  Ferroniere,  a  man  named  Francois  Ravaillac, 
mounted  upon  the  wheel  and  aimed  a  deadly  blow  at  his  side,  a  second  followed, 
which  reached  his  heart,  and  he  immediately  expired. 

Louis  XIII.,  who  succeeded,  was  then  nine  years  of  age,  and  measures  were 
instantly  taken  for  placing  the  Regency  in  the  hands  of  his  mother,  Mary  De  >I ■■■'•  i- 
cis.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  matters  assumed  a  very  different  aspect  to 
that  which  had  previously  existed.. 

The  government  of  a  woman,  and  that  woman  a  foreigner,  could  not  maintain  the 
lofty  tone  and  vigor  which  had  marked  the  reign  of  Henry.  The  Queen  was  a  per- 
son of  weak  character  and  narrow  understanding,  ruled  entirely  by  favorites  and 
confidants.  The  usual  consequences  ensured— rival  factions  and  internal  disorder. 
In  1614,  Louis  attained  his  majority,  when  the  body  of  Deputies  and  others  known 
as  the  States  General  were  assembled,  and  as  one  of  the  representatives  of  the 
clergy,  then  appeared  Armand  Duplessis  de  Richelieu,  at  that  time  Bishop  of 
Lucon.  To  strengthen  the  government,  it  was  determined  to  marry  the  young 
king  to  the  Infanta  Anne  of  Austria,  a  measure  violently  opposed  by  the  Prince  of 
Conde,  then  in  great  power,  but  warmly  supported  by  the  Queen  Mother  and 
Richelieu,  who  was  silently,  but  surely,  working  his  way  to  power,  and  by  his 
advice,  the  Court  took  the  bold  step  of  arresting  the  Prince  of  Conde,  and  others 
of  the  nobility  saved  themselves  by  flight ;  riots  took  place  in  the  City,  but  were 
soon  suppressed,  and  Richelieu,  for  his  good  services,  was  made  Secretary  of  State. 
He  was  a  firm  ally  of  the  Queen  Mother,  supporting  her  strongly  against  all  oppos- 
ing factions.  The  military  successes  were  great,  but  notwithstanding  this,  the  Gov- 
ernment fell  into  a  lamentable  state  of  weakness. 

The  King's  chief  advisers  all  stood  in  awe  of  Richelieu,  whose  commanding  genius 
was  apparent ;  but  in  spite  of  all  opposition,  the  Queen  Mother  compelled  Louis,  in 
1622,  to  make  Richelieu  a  cardinal.  Affairs  grew  worse  and  more  unsteady,  the 
King  disliked  the  Cardinal,  but  under  the  importunities  of  the  Queen  Mother,  he 
summoned  him  to  his  Council.  He  had  not  been  in  office  six  months  before  Lis 
supremacy  was  universally  recognized  ;  the  irresistible  energy  of  his  character,  and 
extraordinary  capacity  for  government,  won  their  way.  Attaining  this  high  posi- 
tion, he  started  principles  which  he  pursued  vigorously  through  life,  the  annihila- 
tion of  the  Huguenots  as  a  political  party,  the  complete  subjugation  of  the  nobility 
to  the  royal  authority,  and  the  restoration  of  France  to  her  predominant  influence 
throughout  Europe. 

The  first  plot  against  him  was  in  1626,  by  Gaston,  the  King's  only  brother,  and 
then  Duke  of  Anjou  ;  but  being  detected,  and  being  a  mixture  of  weakness,  coward- 
ice and  baseness,  he  betrayed  his  accomplices,  for  which  the  King  was  weak  enough 
to  make  him  Duke  of  Orleans  and  give  him  large  revenues.  Richelieu  had  his 
revenge  by  the  execution  or  banishment  of  the  other  conspirators,  and  the  triumph 
over  this  plot  established  his  supremacy.  From  step  to  step  he  rose  to  greater  fame, 
and  notwithstanding  his  exalted  rank  and  ecclesiastical  character,  he  personally 
ui  dertook  the  military  operations  at  the  siege  of  La  Rochelle,  and  proved  he  pos- 
sessed all  the  qualities  of  a  great  commander.  In  1G29,  he  was  iuvested  with  the 
aaost  extraordinary  powers  under  the  title  of  "Lieutenant  General,  representing 
the  King's  person."  He  assumed  the  supreme  command  of  the  army,  and  during 
1630  fortress  after  fortress,  in  Italy  and  Savoy,  fell  before  the  French  forces. 


12  KICHELIEU. 

In  1637  another  conspiracy  was  formed  against  him  by  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  which 
only  failed  through  iudecisiou.  Richelieu  was  ill,  a  council  was  held  at  his  resi- 
dence ;  unsuspectingly  he  descended  the  staircase  surrounded  by  the  conspirators, 
and  at  this  moment  his  fate  hung  upon  a  thread.  Gaston's  nerve  failed  him,  lie 
hesitated  to  give  the  appointed  signal,  the  others  would  not  strike  without  orders, 
so  the  Cardinal  escaped.  Well  might  the  noble  author  of  the  play  put  into  the 
mouth  of  his  hero  the  words  : 

"  Armand  de  Richelieu  dies  not  by  the  hand 
Of  man — the  stars  have  said  it— and  the  voice 
Of  my  own  prophetic  and  oracular  soul 
Confirms  the  shining  Sibyls  !" 

In  the  year  1638,  Richelieu  received  a  severe  blow  by  the  death  of  his  confidant, 
the  Capuchin  Joseph  du  Tremblay,  who  was  a  personage  scarcely  less  remarkable 
in  his  own  line,  than  Richelieu  himself.  He  had  been  employed  in  all  the  most 
difficult  and  political  negotiations  of  the  time,  performing  his  duties  with  unswerv- 
ing fidelity  to  his  master  and  the  interests  of  France. 

lhe  King's  health,  always  feeble,  was  now  much  impaired,  and  Richelieu  began 
to  reckon  with  certainty  upon  obtaining  the  Regency.  But  another  attempt  against 
him  was  to  come.  He  had  placed  near  the  King,  in  the  quality  of  Equerry,  a  gay 
and  brilliant  young  nobleman,  the  Marquis  of  Cinq  Mars,  who  quickly  ingratiated 
himself  with  Louis,  so  much  so,  as  to  force  his  way  into  the  Council  Chamber,  from 
which  Richelieu  at  last  sternly  excluded  him.  From  that  moment,  Cinq  Mars  exert- 
ed all  his  influence  to  ruin  the  Cardinal — enlisting  all  the  Minister's  ancient  ene- 
mies, more  or  less,  in  the  plot.  Louis  was  attacked  with  a  fit  of  illness,  and  to 
strengthen  their  position,  in  case  of  his  death,  they  entered  into  a  treaty  with  the 
Court  of  Spain,  to  assist  them  with  troops  and  money,  in  return  for  which  the  King 
of  Spain  was  to  receive  back  all  the  places  conquered  by  France. 

In  1642,  Louis  and  Richelieu,  both  in  feeble  health,  journeyed  towards  the  army 
of  the  south,  but  Richelieu  became  so  unwell  that  he  was  compelled  to  remain  at 
Narbonne,  while  the  King  went  on.  But  Louis  soon  tired  of  command;  he  found, 
that  in  the  absence  of  Richelieu,  he  could  depend  upon  no  one  for  the  conduct  of 
affairs,  and  a  messenger  was  dispatched  to  the  Cardinal,  assuring  him  that  he  stood 
higher  than  ever  in  the  King's  favor.  At  this  moment,  by  a  singular  stroke  of 
good  fortune,  Richelieu  received  from  some  unknown  hand,  a  copy  of  the  treaty — it 
was  laid  before  the  King — arrests  ordered — additional  powers  given  to  Richelieui 
and  while  Louis  returned  to  Paris,  the  Cardinal  embarked  in  a  magnificent  barge 
upon  the  Rhone,  dragging  in  a  boat  behind  him,  Cinq  Mars,  and  Frangois  du  Thou, 
son  of  a  celebrated  historian  of  the  time,  and  proceeded  to  Lyons,  where  they  were 
tried  and  executed,  Sept.  12th,  1642— the  contemptible  Duke  of  Orleans  betraying  his 
associates  as  usual,  by  acknowledging  the  treaty.  He  was,  however,  deprived  of  his 
dignity  and  domains,  and  banished,  as  was  the  case  also  with  the  Due  de  Bouillon. 

Everywhere  now  was  Richelieu  triumphant,  but  the  end  came.  On  returning  to 
Paris,  the  ravages  of  a  mortal  disease,  from  which  he  had  long  suffered,  reached  a 
climax.  On  his  death-bed  he  called  God  to  witness  that  lie  had  pursued  no  other 
object  than  the  welfare  of  the  church  and  of  the  kingdom  ;  and  being  asked  whether 
he  forgave  his  enemies,  he  replied  he  never  had  any  except  those  who  were  enemies 
of  the  State. 

He  died  Dec.  4th,  1642,  at  58  years  of  age,  and  in  May,  1643,  Louis  XIII.  followed 
him. 

Upon  these  facts  (but  as  the  author  frankly  observes,  taking  a  little  liberty  with 
dates,  etc.),  is  the  play  founded — a  p'.ay,  which  is  replete  with  action,  interest  and 
poetry.  It  is  interesting  to  compare  these  historical  facts  with  the  story  of  lhe 
play,  and  see  with  what  skill  and  ingenuity  the  author  has  constructed  it. 

Resuming  the  remarks,  all  the  actors  mentioned  in  the  "  Remarks"  to  the  Lady 
of  Lyons  as  appearing  as  Claude  Melnotte,  followed  Macready's  steps  in  this  play, 
and  it  is  therefore  unnecessary  to  repeat  here  the  observations  regarding  them  which 


RICHELIEU.  13 

appear  in  those  remarks,  as  they  are  equally  applicable  to  their  delineation  of  the 
character  of  Richelieu. 

It  was  the  same,  also,  in  the  United  States.  The  play  was  produced  at  Wallack's 
Old  National  Theatre,  New  York,  on  Sept.  -1th,  1839,  with  the  great  Edwin  Forrest 
as  the  hero,  and  his  keen  appreciation  and  masterly  execution  of  the  telling  beau- 
ties of  the  character,  secured  for  him  a  success  and  fame  unprecedented.  He  was 
followed  by  many  others,  well  known  to  fame,  and  lastly  by  Mr.  E.  L.  Davenport, 
who  must  be  admitted  to  be  as  good  a  Richelieu  as  any  on  the  stage,  and  probably 
the  best  in  the  United  States. 

The  character  of  Richelieu,  it  will  be  observed  upon  close  scrutiny,  requires  very 
great  ability  and  power  on  the  part  of  the  actor  to  portray  it  with  effect.  There  are 
so  many  sides  of  the  wily  but  fearless  old  Cardinal— craftiness,  courage,  humor,  in- 
firmities, vanity,  and  potency  of  will,  even  to  the  very  last  all  these  passions  require 
clean  and  delicate  handling.  There  is  little  doubt  that  Macready  on  the  English 
and  Edwin  Forrest  on  the  American  boards  were  two  of  the  finest  representatives 
of  Richelieu  on  the  stage,  and  that  the  present  ones  are  Mr.  Phelps  (who  was  the 
original  Joseph  in  the  first  representation  in  London)  and  Mr.  E.  L.  Davenport. 

The  part  of  De  Mauprat  was  originally  filled  in  London  by  Mr.  James  Anderson, 
who  afterwards  rose  to  be  himself  a  fine  delineator  of  the  leading  character  of  the 
play,  as  well  as  of  a  large  range  of  other  characters.  Indeed,  that  was  the  case 
with  many  others  of  the  actors  in  the  origiual  cast.  Then  again  the  elegant  and 
accomplished  Miss  Helen  Faucit,  who  had  made  such  a  hit  the  preceding  year  as 
Pauline,  in  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  once  more  established  herself  as  a  great  favorite  in 
the  part  of  Julie  de  Mortemar.  There  was  probably  also  never  a  finer  Joseph  on 
the  stage  than  Mr.  Phelps,  now  the  English  father  of  Tragedians.  So  it  will  be 
seen  that,  as  in  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  not  only  was  the  leading  character  sustained  by 
the  greatest  actor  of  the  day,  but  he  was  well  and  effectively  supported  in  every 
part  by  x>ersous  who  must  have  rendered  the  characters  well,  as  they  afterwards  ad- 
vanced to  the  first  rank  of  the  profession. 

At  the  Old  National  Theatre,  Mr.  J.  W.  Wallack,  Jr.,  in  the  character  of  De 
Mauprat  made  a  great  hit.  He  was  handsome  in  face  and  person,  like  all  of  the 
family,  and  capable,  like  most  of  his  name,  of  appearing  to  the  best  possible  ad- 
vantage where  action,  fine  and  correct  attitude  and  spirited  declamation  are  needed. 
De  Mauprat  is  brave,  gay,  and  spirited — he  is  prompt  to  anger,  easily  aroused  when 
he  feels  his  honor  at  stake,  and  as  easily  subdued  when  convinced  that  he  is  in 
error.  It  is  very  probable  that  the  stage  has  never  had  a  finer  De  Mauprat  than 
Mr.  J.  W.  Wallack,  Jr.  He  married  a  Miss  Waring  in  1842,  visited  London  in  1851, 
succeeding  Mr.  Macready  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  and  he  was  afterwards  man- 
ager of  the  Marylebone  Theatre  there. 

Miss  Monier,  the  original  Julie  here,  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished girls  of  the  period,  and  the  daughter  of  parents  who  had  been  attached  to 
the  American  stage  for  years.  In  183G,  after  an  absence  of  eight  years,  she  reap- 
peared in  New  York  (where  she  had  previously  played  as  a  child),  and  a  more  love- 
ly face  and  form  seldom  graced  the  stage.  For  a  short  time  she  was  the  proprietor 
of  a  little  theatre  on  Broadway,  opposite  St.  Paul's  Church,  called  "  Miss  Monier's 
Dramatic  Saloon."  In  1838  she  succeeded  Miss  E.  Wheat  ley  at  Wallack's,  where 
she  remained  until  its  destruction  in  1839.  She  afterwards  married  Captain  Wynne 
of  the  British  Army,  appeared  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  London,  in  July,  lSlfi,  as 
Mrs.  Haller  in  "The  StraDger,"  and  then  retired.  So  much  for  the  original  Julie, 
De  Mauprat,  and  Richelieu.  J.  m.  k. 


14  EIClIELIKU. 


BILL  FOR  FRO  GRAMMES. 

The  events  take  place  in  the  city  of  Parii,  and  the  environ?,  and  at  the  Castle  of 
Ruelle,  two  leagues  from  Paris.    Period,  1642. 

ACT    I.-Tlie   First  Day. 

Scene  I.— ROOM  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  MARION  DE  LORME. 
The  Meeting  of  the  Conspirators — The  Female  Spy — The  Chevalier  de  Matt- 
prat's  Last  Stake — The  History  of  a  Court   Gallant A  Cardinal's 

Trick — Arrest  of  the  Chevalier — A  Rival's  Triumph. 

Scene  II —A  ROOM  IN  THE  CARDINALS  PALACE. 

Richelieu  and  his  Priestly  Confidant — The  Cardinal's  Ward — A  Story  of 
Love — A  Lesson  to  Youth — From  an  Enemy  to  a  Friend — From  a  Lover 
to  a  Husband. 

ACT   II.— The  Second  Day." 

Scene   I.— APARTMENT    IN    THE  CHEVALIER  DE  MAUPRAT'S 
NEW  HOUSE. 

A  Bride  but  no  Wife — The  Royal  Warrant — The  King  Loves  Julie — The 
Trap  Baited  for  a  new  Victim — The  King  Against  the  Cardinal — A 
Husband's  Jealousy — The  Compact  of  Death'! 

Scene  II.— A  ROOM  IN  THE  CARDINAL'S    PALACE. 

The  First  Story  of  the  Conspiracy — Which  is  to  Win? — The  Prowess  of  a 
Youthful  Knight,  but  now  an  aged  Minister — "  The  pen  is  mightier  than 
the  sioord" — The  Story  of  Marion  de  Lorme — The  Tale  of  Treachery 
Divulged — The  Trusty  Messenger  shall  be  the  Page  Francois — An 
Officer  and  a  Traitor — The  Prey  upon  the  Alert. 

ACT  III.-The  Second  Day.    Itlidnisrut. 

Scene  I.— RICHELIEU'S  CASTLE  AT  RUELLE. 

The  Story  of  the  Lost  Dispatch — Away  on  the  Search — There's  no  such  word 
as  "Fail" — The  Story  of  an  Insulted  Wife — A  Libertine  King  and  a 
False  Friend — The  Mysterious  Visitor — The  Story  of  Vengeance  and  of 
Death — Discovery  of  the  Snare — Approach  of  the  Conspirators — The 
Flight  and  Supposed  Death  of  Richelieu. 

Scene  II. — Triumph  of  Baradas — Again  the  Lost  Dispatch — The  Chevalier 
de  Mauprat  Suspected — To-morrow  France  is  Ours  ! 

ACT  IV.-Tlie  Third  Day. 

Scene  1.— THE  GARDENS  OF  THE  LOUVRE. 

The  King  and  the  Conspirator — The  Page  and  the  Chevalier — Again  the  Lost 
Dispatch — The  Mystery — The  false  Friend — Arrest  of  the  Chevalier  de 
Mauprat  again — The  Dead  come  to  Life — The  Appeal  for  Mercy— 
Again  the  Dispatch — An  Appeal  for  Justice — The  Star  of  Richelieti  on 
the  Wane — "  Yesterday  the  Cardinal  King  ;  to-day  a  very  iveak  old  man." 
— The  King's  commands  to  Julie — The  Cardinal's  Holy  Shelter — "  Power 
is  my  Stake,  thy  head  is  thine  " — Wlio  xoill  Win  the  Trick  ? 


KICHELIEU. 


15 


ACT  V.-'l'he  Fourth  Day. 

Scene  I.— A  CORRIDOR  IN  THE  BASTILE. 

Again  the  lost  Dispatch— Father  Joseph's  attempt  Foiled — A  Page's  Cunning — 
Filial  Affection — A  Courtier  Snared — The  Seizure — The  Struggle  and  the 
Dispatch  Secured. 

Scene  II.— THE    KING'S    CLOSET    AT   THE   PALACE    OF   THE 
LOUVRE. 

Conspiracy  in  the  Ascendant — A  If'ife's  Appeal  for  Pardon — A  Royal  Favor- 
ite's Offer — The  Hand  or  the  Grave — "J  or  thy  Husband  ?  "  —  Virtue 
and  Firmness-1— Richelieu  to  the  Rescue — The  Resignation — The  Sinking 
Minister — "All  is  Safe!" — The  Conspirators  Gain — The  Last  Moment 
— Arrival  of  the  Page  with  the  lost  Dispatch — "  i"  have  not  failed" — 
Denouncement  of  the  Traitors — Pardon  of  the  Chevalier  de  Mauprat — 
Arrest  of  the  Conspirators  and  Triumph  of  the  Cardinal 
RICHEL  IEU. 


EXPLANATION  OF  THE  STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 
The  Actor  is  supposed  to  face  the  Audience. 


B.3 
B.3Z. 

/ 


J 

/ 


SCENE. 


\ 


L.  3  B. 


\ 


\ 


i»2z. 


\ 


L.  IE, 


C.  Z.  0. 

AUDIENCE. 


L.  Left. 

L.  c.  Left  Centre. 

l.  1  e.  Left  First  Entrance. 

L.  2  E.  Left  Second  Entrance. 

L.  3e.  Left  Third  Entrance. 

L.  U.  E.  Left  Upper  Entrance 

(wherever  this  Scene  may  be.) 

X>.  h.  c.  Door  Left  Centre. 


Centre. 
Bight. 

1  E.     Eight  First  Entrance. 

2  e.     Right  Second  Entrance. 

3  E.  Right  Third  Entrance. 
v.  e.  Right  Upper  Entrance 
a.  c    Door  Bight  Centre. 


1G  men  ii.ii.  c. 


AUTHOR'S  r  BEE  ACE. 

Thf.  administration  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  whom  (despite  all  his  darker  qualities) 
Voltaire  and  History  justly  consider  the  true  architect  of  the  French  monarchy,  and 
the  great  parent  of  French  civilization,  is  characterized  by  features  alike  tragic  and 
comic.  A  weak  king— an  ambitious  favorite  ;  a  despicable  conspiracy  against  the 
minister,  nearly  always  associated  with  a  dangerous  treason  against  the  State  — 
these,  with  little  variety  of  names  and  dates,  constitute  the  eventful  cycle  through 
which,  with  a  dazzling  ease,  and  an  arrogant  confidence,  the  great  luminary  fulfilled 
its  destinies.  Blent  together,  in  startling  contrast,  we  see  the  grandest  achieve- 
ments and  the  pattie.it  agents— the  spy— the  mistress— the  capuchin— the  destruc- 
tion of  feudalism  -the  humiliation  ot  Austria— the  dismemberment  of  Spain. 

Richelieu  himself  is  still  what  he  was  in  his  own  day— a  man  of  two  characters. 
If,  on  the  one  hand,  he  is  justly  represented  as  indexible  and  vindictive,  crafty  and 
unscrupulous  ;  so,  on  the  other,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  he  was  placed  in  times  in 
which  the  long  impunity  of  every  license  required  stern  examples— that  he  was  be- 
set by  perils  and  intrigues,  which  gave  a  certain  excuse  to  the  subtlest  inventions  of 
self-defence -that  his  ambition  was  inseparably  connected  with  a  passionate  love  for 
the  glory  of  his  country -and  that,  if  he  washer  dictator,  he  was  not  less  her  bene- 
factor. It  has  been  fairly  remarked,  by  the  most  impartial  historians,  that  he  was 
no  less  generous  to  merit  than  severe  to  crime— that  in  the  various  departments  of 
the  State,  the  Army,  and  the  Church,  he  selected  and  distinguished  (lie  ablest  aspir- 
ants-that  the  wars  which  he  conducted  were,  for  the  most  part,  essential  to  the 
preservation  of  Fiance,  and  Europe  itself,  from  the  formidable  encroachments  of  the 
Austrain  House— that,  in  spite  of  those  wars,  tl*  people  were  not  oppressed  with 
exorbitant  imposts— and  that  he  left  the  kingdom  he  had  governed  in  a  more  flour- 
ishing and  vigorous  state  than  ai  any  former  period  of  the  French  history,  or  at  the 
decease  of  Louis  XIV. 

The  cabals  formed  against  this  great  statesman  were  not  carried  on  by  the  patriot- 
ism of  public  virtue,  or  the  emulation  of  equal  talent  ;  they  were  but  court  struggles, 
in  which  the  most  worthless  agents  had  recourse  to  the  most  desperate  means.  In 
each,  as  I  have  before  observed,  we  see  combined  the  twofold  attempt  to  murder  the 
minister  and  to  betray  the  country.  Such,  then,  are  the  agents,  and  such  the 
designs,  with  which  truth,  in  the  Drama  as  in  history,  requires  us  to  contrast  the 
celebrated  Cardinal— not  disguising  his  foibles  or  his  vices,  but  not  unjust  to  the 
grander  qualities  (especially  the  love  of  country),  by  which  they  were  often  dignified, 
aud,  at  times  redeemed. 

The  historical  drama  is  the  concentration  of  historical  events.  In  the  attempt  to 
place  upon  the  stage  the  picture  of  an  era,  that  license  with  dates  and  details  which 
Poetry  permits,  and  which  the  highest  authorities  in  the  Drama  of  France  herself 
have  sanctioned,  has  been,  though  not  unsparingly,  indulged.  The  conspiracy  of  the 
Due  de  Bouillon  is,  for  instance,  amalgamated  with  the  denouement  of  The  Day  of 
Dupes;  and  circumstances  connected  with  the  treason  of  Cinq  Murs  (whose  brilliant 
youth  and  gloomy  catastrophe  tend  to  subvert  poetic  anl  historic  justice,  by  seduc- 
ing us  to  forget  his  base  ingratitude  and  his  perfidious  apostasy)  are  identified  with 
the  fate  of  the  earlier  favorite  Baradas,  whose  sudden  rise  and  as  sudden  fall  passed 
into  a  proverb.  I  ought  to  add,  that  the  noble  romance  of  "  Cinq  Mars  "  suggested 
one  of  the  scenes  in  the  fifth  act ;  and  that  for  the  conception  of  some  portion  of  the 
intrigue  connected  with  De  Mauprat  and  Julie,  I  am,  with  great  alterations  of  inci- 
dent, and  considerable  if  not  entire  reconstruction  of  character,  indebted  to  an  early 
and  admirable  novel  by  the  author  of  "  Picciola." 

London,  March,  1839. 


RICHELIEU ; 

OE,  THE  COJSTSPIKACY. 


ACT  I. 

FIRST   DAT. 


SCENE  I. — A  handsomely  furnished  room  in  the  house  of  Marion  de  Loeme  ; 
entrance  l.  c,  hung  with  tapestry  ;  a  table  r.  (with  wine,  fruits,  etc.). 
at  ivhich  arc  seated  Baradas,  l  of  table,  four  Courtiers,  splendidly 
dre-sed  in  the  costume  of  16-41-2;  the  Duke  of  Orleans  seated  r.  ; 
Marion  de  Lormf.  s  anding  at  the  back  of  his  chair,  offers  him  a  gobht, 
and  then  retires.  At  another  table,  l.,  De  Beringhen,  De  Mauprat, 
playing  at  dice ;  Clermont  and  other  Courtiers  looking  on. 

Orleans  (b.  of  table,  drinking).  Here's  to  our  enterprise  ! 
Bakadas  (l.  of  table,  glancing  at  Marion).  Hush,  sir  ! 

Orleans  {aside).  Nay,  Count, 

You  may  trust  her ;  she  doats  on  me  ;  no  house 

So  safe  as  Marion's. 
Bar  Still,  we  have  a  secret. 

And  oil  and  water — woman  and  a  secret — 

Ave  hostile  properties,   (noise  oj  playing  at  l.  table.) 
Orleans.  Well — Marion,  see 

How  the  play  prospers  yonder. 
[Marion  goes  to  the  l.  table,  looks  on  for  a  few  moments,  then  exits,  l.  c. 
Bar.    (producing  a  parchment).  I  have  now 

All  the  conditions  drawn  ;  it  only  needs 

Our  signatures  ;   upon  receipt  of  this 

(Whereto  is  joined  the  schedule  of  our  treaty 

With  the  Count-Duke,  the  Richelieu  of  the  Escurial) 

Bouillon  will  join  his  army  with  the  Spaniard, 

March  on  to  Paris — there  dethrone  the  King ; 

You  will  be  Recent ;   I,  and  ye,  my  Lords, 

Form  the  new  Council.     So  much  for  the  core 

Of  our  great  scheme,   (noise  at  l.  table.) 
Orleans.  But  Richelieu  is  an  Argus  5 

One  of  his  hundred  eyes  will  light  upon  us, 

And  then — good-bye  to  life 
Bar.  To  gain  the  prize 

We  must  destroy  the  Argus.    Ay,  my  Lords, 

The  scroll  the  core,  but  blood  must  fill  the  veins, 

Of  our  design  ; — while  this  dispatch'd  to  Bouillon, 

Richelieu  dispatch'd  to  heaven  !     The  last  my  charge. 

Meet  here  to-morrow  night.     You,  sir,  as  first 


18  BICHKLIEU.  [ACT  I. 

In  honor  and  in  hope,  meanwhile  select 
Some  trusty  knave  to  bear  the  scroll  to  Bouillon ; 
Midst  Richelieu's  foes  I'll  find  some  desperate  hand 
To  strike  for  vengeance,  while  we  stride  to  power. 
Orleans.  So  be  it;  to-morrow,  midnight. — Come,  my  Lords. 

Exeunt  Orleans  and  the  Courtiers  in  h  s  train,  l.  c.     Those  at  'he  l.  ta- 
ble >ise,  salute  Orleans,  and  re-seat  themselves. 

De  Ber.  Double  the  stakes. 

De  Map.  Done,  (throws.) 

De  Ber.  Bravo  !  faith,  it  shames  me 

To  bleed  a  purse  already  at  its  last  gasp. 
De  Map.  Nay,  as  you've  had  the  patient  to  yourself 

So  long,  no  other  doctor  shall  dispatch  it.  (De  Mauprat  throws.  | 
Omne*.  Lost!     Ha,  ha  ! — poor  De  Mauprat ! 
De  Be ii.  One  throw  more  1 

De  Mau.  No;  I  am  bankrupt,  (pushing  gold)  There  goes  all — except 

My  honor  and  my  sword,  (they  >ise  ;  he  crosses  r.  ) 
Cler.  Ay,  take  the  sword 

To  Cardinal  Richelieu ;  he  gives  gold  for  steel, 

When  worn  by  brave  men. 
De  Mau.  Richelieu ! 

De  Ber.  (to  Baradas).  At  that  name' 

He  changes  color,  bites  his  nether  lip. 

Even  in  his  brightest  moments  whisper  "  Richelieu,' 

And  you  cloud  all  his  sunshine. 
Bar.  I  have  mark'd  it, 

And  will  learn  the  wherefore. 
De  Mau.  (going  to  table,  r. ).  The  Egyptian 

Dissolved  her  richest  jewel  in  a  draught ; 

Would  I  could  so  melt  time  and  all  its  treasures, 

And  drain  it  thus,  (drinking.) 
De  Bek.  Come,  gentlemen,  what  say  ye, 

A  walk  on  the  parade? 
Cler.  Ay;  come,  De  Mauprat. 

De  Mau.  Pardon  me;»we  shall  meet  again  ere  night-fall. 
De  Ber.  Come,  Baradas. 

Bar.  I'll  stay  and  comfort  Mauprat. 

De  Ber.  Comfort ! — when 

We  gallant  fellows  have  run  out  a  friend, 

There's  nothing  left — except  to  run  him  through .' 

There's  the  last  act  of  friendship. 
De  Mau.  Let  me  keep 

That  favor  in  reserve  ;  in  all  besides 

Your  most  obedient  servant.  [Exeunt  De  Beringhen,  etc.,  L.  c. 
Bar.  (l.  c).  You  have  lost — 

Yet  are  not  sad. 
De  Mau.  Sad !     Life  and  gold  hath  wings, 

And  must  fly  one  day  ;  open,  then,  their  cages 

And  wish  them  merry. 
Bar.  You're  a  strange  enigma — 

Fiery  in  war — and  yet  to  glory  lukewarm  ; 

All  mirth  in  action — in  repose  all  gloom — 

Fortune  of  late  has  sever'd  us — and  led 

Me  to  the  rank  of  Courtier,  Count,  and  Favorite, 

You  to  the  titles  of  the  wildest  gallant 


ACT  I.]  RICHELIEU.  19 

And  bravest  knight  in  France  ;  are  you  content? 
(Maoprat  goes  up  and  sits  l.  of  r.  table) 

No  ; — trust  in  me — some  gloomy  secret 

De  Mau.  Ay — 

A  secret  that  doth  haunt  me,  as,  of  old, 

Men  were  possess'd  of  fiends  !  (rises)  Where'er  I  turn, 

The  grave  yawns  dark  before  me  !  (crosses  l.)  I  will  trust  you  ; — 

Hating  the  Cardinal,  and  beguiled  by  Orleans, 

You  know  I  joined  the  Languedoc  revolt — 

Was  captured — sent  to  the  Bastile 

Bar.  But  shared 

The  general  pardon,  which  the  Dnke  of  Orleans 

Won  for  himself  and  all  in  the  revolt, 

Who  but  obey'd  his  orders. 
De  Mau.  Note  the  phrase  ; — 

"  Obey'd  his  orders."     Well,  when  on  my  way 

To  join  the  Duke  in  Languedoc,  I  (then 

The  down  upon  my  lip — less  man  than  boy) 

Leading  young  valors — reckless  as  myself. 

Seized  on  the  town  of  Faviaux,  and  displaced 

The  Royal  banners  for  the  Rebel.     Orleans 

(Never  too  daring),  when  I  reach 'd  the  camp, 

Blamed  me  for  acting — mark — without  his  orders  ; 

Upon  this  quibble  Richelieu  razed  my  name 

Out  of  the  general  pardon. 
Bar.  Yet  released  you 

From  the  Bastile 

De  Map.  To  call  me  to  his  presence, 

And  thus  address  me — "  You  have  seized  a  town 

Of  France,  without  the  orders  of  your  leader, 

And  for  this  treason,  but  one  sentence — Death." 
Bar.  Death  ! 
De  Mau.  "  I  have  pity  on  your  youth  and  birth, 

Nor  wish  to  glut  the  headsman — join  your  troop, 

Now  on  the  march  against  the  Spaniards — change 

The  traitor's  scaffold  for  the  soldier's  grave — 

Your  memory  stainless — they  who  shared  your  crime 

Exiled  or  dead — your  king  shall  never  learn  it." 
Bar.  Well  ? 

De  Mau.  You  heard  if  I  fought  bravely.     When  the  Cardinal 

Review'd  the  troops — his  eye  met  mine — he  frown'd, 

Summon'd  me  forth — "  How's  this?"  quoth  he;  "  you  have 
shunn'd 

The  sword — beware  the  axe — 'twill  fall  one  day  !" 

He  left  me  thus — we  were  recall'd  to  Paris, 

And — you  know  all ! 
Bar.  And  knowing  this,  why  halt  you, 

Spell'd  by  the  rattle-snake — while  in  the  breasts 

Of  your  firm  friends  beat  hearts,  that  vow  the  death 

Of  your  grim  tyrant  1     Wake  !     Be  one  of  us  ; 

The  time  invites — the  King  detests  the  Cardinal, 

Dares  not  disgrace — but  groans  to  be  deliver'd 

Of  that  too  great  a  subject — join  your  friends, 

Free  France,  and  save  yourself. 
Be  Mac.  Hush  !  Richelieu  bears 

A  charm'd  life — to  all,  who  have  braved  his  power, 

One  common  end — the  block. 


20  lMClll.LIl  U.  [ACT  I. 

"Au.  Nay,  it'  ho  live, 

The  block  your  doom  ! 

De  Map.  Better  the  victim,  Count, 

Than  the  assassin.     France  requires  a  Richelieu, 
But  does  not  need  a  Mauprat.     Truce  to  this — 
All  time  one  midnight,  where  my  thoughts  are  spectres. 
What  to  me  fame  ?     What  love  1  {crosses  gloomily  to  k.  I 

Bar.  Yet  dost  thou  love  not  ? 

De  Mau.   Love  1  I  am  young 

Bar.  And  Julie  fair  !  (De  Mauprat  sinks  into  a  (hair,  r.    Aside)  It  is  so, 
Upon  the  margin  of  the  grave — Lis  hand 
Would  pluck  the  rose  thai  1  would  win  and  wear. 

De  Mau.  {starting  up  gayly).  Since  you  have  one  secret,  take  the  other; 
Never 
Unbury  either  !     Come  {crosses  i.,  and  takes  his  hat  from  table) 

while  yet  we  may, 
We'll  bask  us  in  the  noon  of  rosy  life — 
Lounge  through  the  gardens — flaunt  it  in  the  taverns — 
Laugh  —name  -drink — feast— if  so  confined  my  days, 
Faith,  I'll  enclose  the  nights  !  [goes  to  Baradas,  who  is  r.)  Pshaw  ! 

not  so  grave ; 
I'm  a  true  Frenchman  !      Vive  la  bagatelle ! 

A*  they  are  going  out,  enter   HuGOET   and  four  ArQURBUSIERS,  L.   <\  ;   they 
range  at  the  back  of  the  entrance.      Euoi  the  eh  a  nbcr. 

Huguet.   Messire  de  Mauprat — 1  arrest  you!     Follow- 
To  the  Lord  Cardinal. 
De   Mau.   (r   c).  Yon  see.  my  friend, 

I'm  out  of  my  suspense — the  tiger's  play  d 

Long  enough  with  bis  prey.  {giv<  I  to  IItouet;  Farew  -11  ' 

Hereafter 

Siy,  when  men  name  me,  "  Adrien  de  Mauprat 

Lived  without  hope,  and  perished  without   fear." 

[Exeunt  De  Mauprat,  Huguet,  etc.,  l.  c. 
Bar.  Farewell — I  trust  forever  !     I  design'd  thee 

For  Richelieu's  murderer — but,  as  well  his  in  irtyrl 

In  childhood  you  the  stronger — and  I  cursed  you! 

In  youth  the  fairer — and  I  cursed  you  still  ; 

And  now  my  rival !     While  t!ie  name  of  Julio 

Hung  on  thy  lips — I  smiled — for  then  1  saw, 

In  my  mind's  eye,  the  cold  and  grinning  Death 

Hang  o'er  thy  head  the  pall !     By  the  King's  aid 

I  will  be  Julie's  husband! — in  despite 

Of  my  Lord  Cardinal  ! — by  the  King's  aid 

I  will  be  Minister  of  France  ! — in  spite 

Of  my  Lord  Cardinal  !     And  then — what  then  1 

The  King   loves  Julie — feeble   Prince — false   master — {producing 
the  parchment) 

Then,  by  the  aid  of  Bouillon,  and  the  Spaniard, 

I  will  dethrone  the  Kin;* ;  and  all — ha — ha — 

All,  in  despite  of  my  Lord  Cardinal.  [Exit,  l. 

SCENE  II. — A  room  in  ths  Palais  Cardinal,  the  ividls  hung  with  arras.  A 
large  screen,  R.  U.  e.,  a  door  behind  the  arras.  L  u.  e. — doors  L  n  an  I 
r.  h.  A  table  covered  with  books,  papers,  etc.,  c  A  rude  clock  in  a 
recess.     Busts,  statues,  bookcases,  weapons  of  different  period*,  and  ban- 


ACT  I.] 


RICHELIEU.  21 


tiers  suspended  over  Richelieu's  chair.     A  panoply,  a  small  and  a  two- 
handed  sword,  R. 

Richelieu  and  Joseph,  r.  d. 

Rich.  And  so  you  think  this  new  conspiracy 

The  craftiest  trap  yet  laid  for  the  old  fox  1— 

Fox!     Well,  I  like  the  nickname  !     What  did  Plutarch 

Say  of  the  Greek  Lysander  ? 
Joseph.  I  forget. 

Rich.  That  where  the  Lion's  skin  fell  short,  he  eked  it 

Out  with  the  fox's !     A  great  statesman,  Joseph, 

That  same  Lysander  ! 
j0Sg  Orleans  heads  the  traitors. 

Rich.  A  very  wooden  head  then  !     Well  1 
jos#  The  favorite, 

Count  Baradas 

Bjch.  A  weed  of  hasty  growth  ; 

First  gentleman  of  the  chamber— titles,  lands, 

And  the  King's  ear!     It  cost  me  six  long  winters 

To  mount  as  high  as  in  six  little  moons 

This  painted  lizard But  I  hold  the  ladder, 

And  when  I  shake— he  falls  !     What  more  ? 

Jos.     Your  ward  has  charmed  the  King 

Rich.  0ut  on  J'ou  ■ 

Have  I  not,  one  by  one,  from  such  fair  shoots 

Pluck'd  the  insidious  ivy  of  his  love  1 

And  shall  it  creep  around  my  blossoming  tree 

Where  innocent  thoughts,  like  happy  birds,  make  music 

That  spirits  in  heaven  might  hear  1     The  King  must  have 

No  goddess  but  the  State— the   State— that's  Richelieu  !  (crosses 
and  sits  r.  of  table.) 
Jos.     (l.).  This  is  not  the  worst— Louis,  in  all  decorous, 

And  deeminn;  you  her  least  compliant  guardian, 

Would  veil  his  suit  by  marriage  with  his  minion, 

Your  prosperous  foe,  Count  Baradas  ! 

Ha,  ha ! 

I  have  another  bride  for  Baradas. 
Jos.     You,  my  Lord  1 
plICHi  Ay — more  faithful  than  the  love 

Of  fickle  woman — when  the  head  lies  lowliest, 

Clasping  him  fondest.     Sorrow  never  knew 

So  sure^a  soother — and  her  bed  is  stainless ! 

Enter  Francois,  l.  d. 

Fr^n.  Mademoiselle  de  Mortemar. 

Rich.  Most  opportune— admit  her.  (Exit,  Francois,  l   d.)  In  my  closet 

You'll  find  a  rosary,  Joseph  ;  ere  you  tell 

Three  hundred  beads,  ?11  summon  you.  (Joseph  going  c.)  Stay, 
Joseph  ; — 

I  did  omit  an  Ave  in  my  matins — 

A  grievous  fault ; — atone  it  for  me,  Joseph  ; 

There  is  a  scourge  within  ;  I  am  weak,  you  strong. 

It  were  but  charity  to  take  my  sin 

On  such  broad  shoulders. 
Jos      (aside)  Troth  a  pleasant  invitation  ! 

[Ex  t  Joseph,  d.  l.  h. 


Rich. 


22  KICllKLIl  r.  [aci  I. 

Enter  Julie  de  Mortemar,  l.  d.     She  goes  to  Richelieu  and  sits  at  his 

feet,  it. 

Rich.  That's  my  sweet  Julie  ! 

Julie.  Are  you  gracious  7 

May  I  say  "  Father  7  " 
Rich.  Now  and  ever  ! 

Julie.  Father ! 

A  sweet  word  to  an  orphan. 
Rich.  No  ;  not  orphan 

While  Richelieu  lives;  thy  father  loved  me  well; 

My  friend,  ere  1  had  flatterers  (now,  I'm  great, 

In  other  phrase,  I'm  friendless) — he  died  young 

In  years,  not  service,  and  bequeath'd  thee  to  me; 

And  thou  shalt  have  a  dowry,  girl,  to  buy 

Thy  mate  amidst  the  mightiest.     Drooping  ? — sighs  7 

Art  thou  not  happy  at  the  conrt  7 
Julie.  Not  often. 

Rich,   (aside).  Can  she  love  Baradas  7 

(aloud    Thou  art  admired — art  young; 

Does  not  his  Majesty  commend  thy  beauty — 

Ask  thee  to  sing  to  him  7 — and  swear  such  sounds 

Had  smooth'd  the  brows  of  Saul  7 
Julie.  He's  very  tiresome. 

Our  worthy  King.  (Richelieu,  during  this  dialogue,  is  writing.) 
Rich.  Fie  !  kings  are  never  tiresome, 

Save  to  their  ministers.     What  courtly  gallants 

Charm  ladies  most! — De  Sourdiac,  Cinq  Mars,  or 

The  favorite,  Baradas  7 
Julie.  A  smileless  man — 

I  fear  and  shun  him. 
Rich.  Yet  he  courts  thee  7 

Julie.  .  Then 

He  is  more  tiresome  than  his  Majesty. 
Rich.  Right,  girl,  shun  Baradas.     Yet  of  these  flowers 

Of  France,  not  one,  in  whose  more  honeyed  breath 

Thy  heart  hears  Summer  whisper! 

Enter  Huguet,  l.  d. 

Huguet.  The  Chevalier 

De  Mauprat  waits  below. 
Julie  (starting  up).  De  Mauprat ! 

Rich.  Hem  ! 

He  has  been  tiresome  too.     Anon.  [Exit  Huguet,  l.  d. 

Judie.  What  doth  he  ! — 

I  mean — I — Does  your  Eminence — that  is — 

Know  you  Messire  de  Mauprat  7 
Rich,  (writing).  Well !— and  you- 

Has  he  address'd  you  often  ? 
Julie.  Often  ! — no — 

Nine  times — nay,  ten  ;  the  last  time  by  the  lattice 

Of  the  great  staircase,  (in  a  melancholy  tone)   The  Court  sees  him 
rarely. 
Rich    (writing).  A  bold  and  forward  royster  7 
Julie.  Se  ? — nay,  modest, 

Gentle,  and  sad,  metbinks. 


ACT  I.]  BICHEL1ETJ.  23 

Rich,   [writing).  Wears  gold  and  azure  ? 

Julie.  No;  sable. 

Rich.  So  you  note  his  colors,  Julie  1 

Shame  on  you,  child  ;  look  loitier.     By  the  mass, 

I  have  business  with  this  modest  gentleman. 
Julie.  You're  angry  with  poor  Julie.     There's  no  cause. 
Rich.  No  cause — you  hate  my  foes  1 
.Iulie.  I  do  ! 

Rich.  *  Hate  Mauprat  1 

Julie.  Not  Mauprat.     No,  not  Adrien,  father. 
Rich.  Adrien! 

Familiar  !     Go,  child  ;  (Julie  crosses  toh.)  no — not  that  way;  wait 

In  the  tapestry  chamber  ;  I  will  join  you — go. 
Julie  [crosses  to  r.,  then  pauses).  His  brows  are  knit;  I  dare  not  call  him 
father ! 

But  I  must  speak — Your  Eminence — { approaches  him  timidly.) 
Rich,  {sternly).  Well,  girl ! 

Julie  (kneels).  Nay, 

Smile  on  me — one  smile  more  ;  there,  now  I'm  happy. 

Do  not  rank  Mauprat  with  your  foes  ;  he  is  not, 

I  kuow  he  is  not;  he  loves  France  too  well. 
Rich.  Not  rank  De  Mauprat  with  my  foes  1     So  be  it. 

I'll  blot  him  from  that  list. 
Julie.  That's  my  own  father.      [Exit,  n.  d. 

Rich,  {ringing  a  small  bell  on  the  table).  Huguet ! 

Enter  Huguet,  l.  d. 

De  Mauprat  struggled  not,  nor  murmured  1 
Huguet.  No  ;  proud  and  passive. 

Rich.  Bid  him  enter.     Hold  ; 

Look  that  he  hide  no  weapon.     Humph  !  despair 
Makes  victims  sometimes  victors.     When  he  has  enter'd 
Glide  round  unseen — place  thyself  yonder,  (pointing  to  the  screen) 

Watch  him  ; 
If  he  shows  violence — let  me  see  thy  carbine.  (Huguet  gives  it  to 

him) 
So,  a  good  weapon — if  he  play  the  lion, 
Why — the  dog's  death,  (returning  the  carbine.) 
Huguet.  I  never  miss  my  mark. 

Exit  Huguet,  l.  d.  ;  Richelieu  resumes  his  pen,  and  slowly  arranges  the 
papers  before  him.  Enter  De  Mauprat, preceded  by  Huguet,  who  then 
retires  behind  the  screen,  R.  u.  e. 

Rich.  Approach,  sir.  (De  Mauprat  advances)  Can         call  to  mind  the 
hour, 

Now  three  years  since,  when  in  this  room,  methinks, 

Your  presence  honor'd  me  ? 
De  Mau.  (l.  c).  It  is,  my  Lord, 

One  of  my  most 

Rich,   (dryly).  Delightful  recollections. 

Dk  Mau.  (aside).  St.  Denis  !  doth  he  make  a  jest  of  axe 

And  headsman  1 
Rich,  (sternly).  I  did  then  accord  you 

A  mercy  ill  requited — you  still  live  1 


24  RICHELIEU.  [ACT  I. 

De  Mac.  To  meet  death  face  to  face  at  last. 

Rich.  Messire  de  Mauprat, 

Doom'd  to  sure  death,  how  hast  thou  since  cousumed 

The  time  allotted  thee  for  serious  thought 

And  solemn  penitence  1 
De  Mau.  {embarrassed).  The  time,  my  lord  1 

Rich.  Is  not  the  question  plain  1     I'll  answer  for  thee. 

Thou  hast  sought  nor  priest  nor  shrine;  no  sackcloth  chafed 

Thy  delicate  flesh.     The  rosary  and  the  death's  head 

Have  not,  with  pious  meditation,  purged 

Earth  from  the  carnal  gaze.     What  thou  hast  not  done 

Brief  told  ;   what  done,  a  volume!     Wild  debauch, 

Turbulent  riot — for  the  mom  the  dice-box — 

Noon  claim'd  the  duel — and  the  night  the  wassail  ; 

These,  your  most  holy,  pure  preparatives, 

For  death  and  judgment.     Do  I  wrong  you,  sir  1 
De  Mau.  I  was  not  always  thus — if  changed  my  nature, 

Blame  that  which  changed  my  fate. 

Were  you  accursed  with  that  which  you  inflicted — 

By  bed  and  board,  do^g'd  by  one  ghastly  spectre — 

The  while  within  you  youth  beat  high,  and  life 

Grew  lovelier  from  the  neighboring  frown  of  death — 

Were  this  your  fate,  perchance, 

You  would  have  err'd  like  me  ! 
Rich.  I  might,  like  you, 

Have  been  a  brawler  and  a  reveller  ;  not, 

Like  you,  a  trickster  and  a  thief. 
De  Mau.  (advancing  threateningly').        Lord  Cardinal ! 

Unsay  those  words!  (Huguet  delibcratdg  raises  the  carbine.) 
Rich,  {waving  bis  hand,  aside).  Not  so  quick,  friend  Huguet ; 

Messire  de  Mauprat  is  a  patient  man, 

And  he  can  wait.  (Huguet  recovers,  and  withdraws  behind  the  screen.) 

{aloud)  You  have  outrun  your  fortune — 

I  blame  you  not,  that  you  would  be  a  beggnr — 

Each  to  his  taste.     But  I  do  charge  you,  sir, 

Thatb?ing  beggar'd,  you  would  coin  false  moneys 

Out  of  that  crucible,  called  debt.     To  live 

On  means  not  yours — be  brave  in  silks  and  laces, 

Gallant  in  steeds — splendid  in  banquets — all 

Not  yours — given — uninherited — unpaid  for  ; 

This  is  to  be  a  trickster  ;  and  to  filch 

Men's  art  and  labor,  which  to  them  is  wealth, 

Life,  daily  bread — quitting  all  scores  with — "  Friend, 

You're  troublesome  !"     Why  this,  forgive  me 

Is  what — when  done  with  a  less  dainty  grace — 

Plain  folks  call  "  theft  .'"     You  owe  eight  thousand  pistoles 

Minus  one  crown,  two  liards  ! 
De  Mau.  {aside).  The  old  conjurer  ! 

Rich.  This  is  scandalous,  shaming  your  birth  and  blood. 

I  tell  you,  sir,  that  you  must  pay  your  debts. 
De  Mau.   (advancing  boldly  to  the  table).  With  all  my  heart. 

My  lord.     Where  shall  I  borrow,  then,  the  money  7 
Rich,  (aside,  and  laughing).  A  humorous  dare-devil — the  very  man 

To  suit  my  purpose — ready,  frank,  and  bold. 

(aloud)  Adrien  de  Mauprat,  men  have  called  me  cruel — 

I  am  not — I  am  just!     I  found  France  rent  asunder — 

The  rich  men  despots,  and  the  poor  banditti — 


ACT  I.] 


EICHELIEU.  25 


Sloth  in  (he  mart,  and  schism  within  the  temple  ; 

Brawls  festering  to  a  rebellion  ;  and  weak  laws 

Rotting  away  with  rust  in  antique  sheaths. 

I  have  re-created  France  ;  and,  from  the  ashes 

Of  the  old  feudal  and  decrepit  carcase, 

Civilization,  on  her  luminous  winj>s, 

Soars,  Phoenix-like,  to  Jove  !     What  was  my  art? 

Genius,  some  say — some,  Fortune.  Witchcraft  some. 

Not  so — my  art  was  Justice  !   (rises)  Force  and  fraud 

Misname  it  cruelty — you  shall  confute  them  ! 

My  champion  you  !     You  met  me  as  your  foe  ; 

Depart,  my  friend— you  shall  not  die."     Fiance  needs  you. 

You  shall  wipe  off  all  stains — be  rich,  be  honor'd, 

Be   great De    Mauprat  /«#«  o«   his /.nee.     Richelieu   takes 

his  hand.) 

I  ask,  sir,  in  return,  this  1  and, 

To  gift  it  with  a  bride,  whose  dower  shall  match, 

Yet  not  exceed  her  beauty.   (Richelieu  raises  him.) 
De  Mau.  I,  my  lord  !  {hesitating) 

1  have  no  wish  to  marry. 
Ricu.  Surely,  sir, 

To  die  were  worse. 
De  Mau.  Scarcely  ;  the  poorest  coward 

Must  die — but  knowingly  to  march  to  marriage — 

My  Lord,  it  asks  the  courage  of  a  lion! 
Rich.  Traitor,  thou  triflest  with  me!     I  know  all ! 

Thou  hast  dared  to  love  my  ward — my  charge. 
De  Mau.  As  rivers 

May  love  the  sunlight  ! — basking  in  the  beams, 

And  hurrying  on — 
Ricn.  Thou  hast  told  her  of  thy  love  ? 

De  Mau.  My  Lord,  if  I  had  dared  to  love  a  maid, 

Lowliest  in  France,  I  would  not  so  have  wronged  her, 

As  bid  her  link  rich  life  and  virgin  hope 

Witli  one,  the  deathman's  gripe  might,  from  her  side, 

Pluck  at  the  nuptial  altar. 
Rich.  I  believe  thee,  (sits) 

Yet  since  she  knows  not  of  thy  love,  renounce  her — 

Take  life  and  fortune  with  another  ! — Silent  ? 
De  Mau.   Your  fate  has  been  one  triumph — you  know  not 

How  bless'd  a  thing  it  was  in  my  dark  hour 

To  nurse  the  one  sweet  thought  you  bid  me  banish. 

Love  hath  no  need  of  words  ;  nor  less  within 

That  holiest  temple — the  Heaven-builded  soul — 

Breathes  the  recorded  vow.     Base  knight — false  lover 

Were  he,  who  barter'd  all  thai  soothe  in  grief, 

Or  sanctified  despair,  for  life  and  gold. 

Revoke  your  mercy  ;  I  prefer  the  fate 

I  look'd  for ! 
Rich.  Huguet!  (Huguet  comes  forward,  a.)  to  the  tapestry 

chamber 

Conduct  your  prisoner,  (to  Maupkat)  You  will  there  behold 

The  executioner  ; — your  doom  be  private — 

And  Heaven  have  mercy  on  you ! 
(De  Mauprat  crosses  slowly  to  r.  ;  pauses;  then  goes  to  Richelieu  ) 
De  Mau.  When  I  am  dead, 

Tell  her  I  loved  her. 


26  EICHICLIEU.  [ACT  I. 

Rich.  Keep  such  follies,  sir, 

For  fitter  ears  ; — go 

Dk  Mau.  Does  he  mock  me  ? 

[Exeunt  De  Macprat  and  Hcooet,  r.  d. 
Rich.  Joseph, 

Come  forth. 

Enter  Joseph,  r.  c,  down  l. 

Methinks  your  cheek  hath  lost  its  rubies  ; 

I  fear  you  have  been  too  lavish  of  the  flesh; 

The  scourge  is  heavy. 
Jos.  Pray  you,  change  the  subject. 

Rich.  You  good  men  are  so  modest ! — Well,  to  business  ! 

Go  instantly — deeds — notaries! — bid  my  stewards 

Arrange  my  house  by  the  Luxembourg — my  house 

No  more  ! — a  bridal  present  to  my  ward, 

Who  weds  to-morrow. 
Jos.  Weds,  with  whom  1 

Rich.  De  Mauprat. 

Jos.     Penniless  husband  1 
Rich.  Bah  !  the  mate  for  beauty 

Should  be  a  man,  and  not  a  money-chest!  (rises)  Who  else, 

Look  you,  in  all  the  court — who  else  so  well, 

Brave,  or  supplant  the  favorite; — balk  the  King — 

Baffle  their  schemes  ; — I  have  tried  him.     He  has  honor 

And  courage  ; — qualities  that  eagle-plume 

Men's  souls — and  fit  them  for  the  fiercest  sun, 

Which  ever  melte  1   the  weak  waxen  minds 

That  flutter  in  the  beams  of  gaudy  Power! 

Besides,  he  has  taste,  this  Mauprat.     When  my  play 

Was  acted  to  dull  tiers  of  lifeless  gapers, 

AVho  had  no  soul  for  poetry,  I  saw  him 

Applaud  in  the  proper  places; — (crosses  l.)  trust  me,  Joseph, 

He  is  a  man  of  an  uncommon  promise ! 
Jos.     And  yet  your  foe. 
Rich.  Have  I  not  foes  enow  1 

Great  men  gain  doubly  when  they  make  foes  friends. 

Remember  my  grand  maxims  : — First  employ 

All  methods  to  conciliate. 
Jos.  Failing  these  1 

Rich,  (fiercely).   All  means  to  crush  ;  as  with  the  opening,  and 

The  clenching  of  this  little  hand,  I  will 

Crush  the  small  venom  of  these  stinging  courtiers. 

So,  so,  we've  baffled  Baradas. 
Jo~.  And  when 

Check  the  conspiracy  ? 
Rich.  Check,  check  1     Full  way  to  it. 

Let  it  bud,  ripen,  flaunt  i'  the  day,  and  burst 

To  fruit — the  Dead  Sea's  fruit  of  ashes  ;  ashes 

Which  I  will  scatter  to  the  winds,  (crosses  and  sits  r.  of  table)  Gi, 
Joseph.  [Exit  Joseph,  l.  d. 

Enter  De  Maupkat  and  Julie,  r.  d  ;  they  kneel. 

De  Mau.  Oh,  speak,  my  Lord — I  dare  not  think  you  mock  me. 

And  yet 

Rich.  How  now  !     Oh !  sir — you  live  ! 


ACT  II.  J  RICHELIEU.  27 

Dk  Mau.  Why,  no,  methinks, 

Elysium  is  not  life  ! 
Jolie.  He  smiles  ! — you  smile, 

My  father !     From  my  heart  for  ever,  now, 

I'll  blot  the  name  of  orphan  ! 
Rich.  Rise,  my  children, 

For  ye  are  mine — mine  both  ; — and  in  your  sweet 

And  young  delight — your  love — (life's  first-born  glory) 

My  own  lost  youth  breathes  musical!   {they  rise.) 
De  Map.  I'll  seek 

Temple  and  priest  henceforward  ; — were  it  but 

To  learn  Heaven's  choicest  blessings. 
Rich.  Thou  shalt  seek 

Temple  and  priest  right  soon;  the  morrow's  sun 

Shall  see  across  these  barren  thresholds  pass 

The  fairest  bride  in  Paris.     Go,  my  children ; 

Even  /loved  once  !  (they  cross  l.)  Be  lovers  while  ye  may  ! 

As  they  are  yoiny,  Richelieu  touches  Mauprat  on  the  right  shoulder,  and 
beckons  him  forward. 

How  is  it  witb  you,  sir  ?     You  bear  it  bravely  , 
You  know,  it  asks  the  courage  of  a  lion. 

[Exeunt  Julie  and  De  Mauprat,  l.  d. 
Oh,  godlike  Power !     Woe,  Rapture,  Penury,  Wealth — 
Marriage  and  Death,  for  one  infirm  old  man 
Through  a  great  empire  to  dispense — withhold — 
As  the  will  whispers  !     And  shall  things — like  motes 
That  live  in  my  daylight — lackeys  of  court  wages, 
Dwarfd  starvelings — manikins,  upon  whose  shoulders 
The  burthen  of  a  province  were  a  load 
More  heavy  than  the  globe  on  Atlas — cast 
Lots  for  my  robes  and  sceptre  1     France  !  I  love  thee  ! 
All  Earth  shall  never  pluck  thee  from  my  heart ! 
My  mistress  France — my  wedded  wife — sweet  France, 
Who  shall  proclaim  divorce  for  thee  and  me  ! 

[Exit  Richelieu,  r.  d. 

curtain. 


ACT    II. 

SECOND    DAT. 


SCENE  I. — A  splendid  apartment  in  De  Mauprat' s  new  house.  Casements 
opening  to  the  gardens,  beyond  which  are  seen  the  domes  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg Palace. 

Enter  Bakadas,  l.  h. 

Bar.  Maupral's  new  home — too  splendid  for  a  soldier  ! 
But  o'er  his  floors — the  while  I  stalk — methinks 
My  shadow  spreads  gigantic  to  the  gloom 
The  old  rude  towers  of  the  Bastile  cast  far 
Along  the  smoothness  of  the  jocund  day. 
Well,  thou  hast  'scaped  the  fierce  caprice  of  Richelieu  ; 
But  art  thou  farther  from  the  headsman,  fool  1 


28  RICHELIEU.  [vcr  II 

Thy  secret  I  have  whisper'd  to  (lie  King — 

Thy  marriage  makes  the  King  thy  foe  !     Thou  stand  st 

On  the  abyss — and  in  the  poo]  below 

I  saw  a  ghastly,  headless  phantom  mirror'd — 

Thy  likeness  ere  the  marriage  moon  hath  waned. 

Meanwhile — meanwhile — ha — ha,  if  thou  art  wedded, 

Thou  art  not  wived,  {retires,  l.) 

Enter  De  Mauprat,  splendidly  dressed,  a. ;  crosses  to  l.,  and  baelc  to  u. 

De  Mat.  Was  ever  fate  like  mine  7 

So  blest,  and  yet  so  wretched  ! 
Bar.  (comes  forward,  i ).  Joy,  De  Mauprat — 

Why,  what  a  brow,  man,  for  your  wedding  day  ! 
De  Mat.  You  know  what  ehanced  between 

The  Cardinal  and  myself? 
Bar.  This  morning  brought 

Your  letter — faith,  a  strange  account!     1  laugh'd 

And  wept  at  once  for  gladness. 
De  Map.  We  were  wed 

At  noon  ;  the  rite perform'd,  came  hither — scarce 

Arrived,  when 

Bar.  Well  ? 

De  Mac  Wide  flew  the  doors,  and  lo, 

Messire  de  Beringhen,  and  this  epistle  ! 
Bar.     'Tis  the  King's  hand — the  royal  seal ! 
De  Mac.  Read— read— 

Bah.  {reading).  "  Whereas  Adrien  de  Mauprat,  Colonel  and  Chevalier  in 
our  armies,  being  already  guilty  of  High  Treason,  by  the  seizure  of  our 
town  of  Faviaux.  has  presumed,  without  our  knowledge,  consent,  or  sanc- 
tion, to  connect  bunself  by  marriage  with  Julie  dc*Mortemar,  a  wealthy 
orphan  attached  to  the  person  of  her  Majesh — Wo  do  hereby  proclaim 
and  declare  the  said  marriage  contrary  to  law.  On  penalty  of  death, 
A  lrien  de  Mauprat  will  not  communicate  with  the  said  Julie  de  Morte- 
ni  ir,  by  word  or  letter,  save  in  the  presence  of  our  faithful  servant,  the 
Sieur  de  Beringhen,  and  then  with  such  respect  and  decorum  as  are  due 
to  a  Demoiselle  attached  to  the  Court  of  France,  until  such  time  as  it 
may  suit  our  royal  pleasure  to  confer  with  the  Holy  Church  on  the  for- 
mal annulment  of  the  marriage,  and  with  our  Council  on  the  punishment 
to  be  awarded  to  Messire  de  Mauprat,  who  is  cautioned  for  his  own  sake 
to  preserve  silence  as  to  our  injunction,  more  especially  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Mortemar. 

"  Given  under  our  hand  and  seal  at  the  Louvre. 

"  Louis  " 

[returning  the  letter).  Amazement !    Did  not  Richelieu  say  the  Kins 

Knew  not  your  crime  1 
De  Mau.  He  said  so. 

Bak.  Poor  De  Mauprat ! 

See  you  the  snare,  the  vengeance  worse  than  death, 

Of  which  you  are  the  victim  1 
De  Mau.  Ha  ! 

Bar.  {mide).  ■  It  works  !  (aloud)  What  so  clear  ? 

Richelieu  has  but  two  passions 

De  Mau.  Richelieu  ! 

Bar.  Yes ! 

Ambition  and  revenge — in  you  both  blended. 


A.CI  II.]  EICHELIEU.  29 

First  for  ambition — Julie  is  his  ward, 

Innocent — docile — pliant  to  his  will — 

He  placed  her  at  the  court — foresaw  the  rest — 

The  King  loves  Julie  ! 
Dr  Mau.  Merciful  Heaven  !     The  King  ! 

Bar.    Such  Cupids  lend  new  plumes  to  Richelieu's  wings  ; 

But  the  Court  etiquette  must  give  such  Cupids 

The  veil  of  Hymen — (Hymen  but  in  name). 

He  looked  abroad — found  you  his  foe — thus  served 

Ambition — by  the  grandeur  of  his  ward, 

And  vengeance — by  dishonor  to  his  foe  ! 
De  Map.  Prove  this. 
Bar  You  have  the  proof — the  royal  letter — 

Your  strange  exemption  from  the  general  pardon. 

Known  but  to  me  and  Richelieu  :  can  you  doubt 

Your  friend  to  acquit  your  foe  1 
De  Map.  I  see  it  all!     Mock  pardon — hurried  nuptials — 

False  bounty — all — the  serpent  ot  that  smile  ! 

Oh  !  it  stings  home  !   {crosses,  l.) 
Bar.  You  yet  shall  crush  his  malice  ; 

Our  plans  are  sure — Orleans  is  at  our  head  ; 

We  meet  to-night  ;  join  us,  and  with  us  triumph. 
De  Mad.   Ta-night  ?     But  the  King  f— but  Julie  1 
Bar.    The  King,  infirm  in  health,  in  mind  more  feeble, 

Is  but  the  plaything  of  a  minister's  will 

Were  Richelieu  dead — his  power  were  mine;  and  Louis 

Soon  should  forget  his  passion  and  your  crime.  (De  Mauprat 
goes  to  l.) 

But  whither  now  ? 
De  Mau.  I  know  not ;  I  scarce  hear  thee  ; 

A  little  while  for  thought ;  anon  I'll  join  thee  ; 

But  now,  all  air  seems  tainted,  and  I  loathe 

The  face  of  man.  [Exit  De  Mauprat,  l. 

Bar.  Start  from  the  chase,  my  prey, 

But  as  thou  speed'st  the  hell-hounds  of  revenge 

Pant  in  thy  track  and  dog  thee  down. 

Enter  De  Bicrinohen,  r.,  his  mouth  full,  a  napkin  in  his  hand. 

Du  Ber.  Chevalier, 

Your  cook's  a  miracle — what,  my  host  aone  ? 

Faith,  Count,  my-  office  is  a  post  of  danger — 

A  fiery  fellow,  Mauprat  !  touch  and  go — 

Match  and  saltpetre — pr-r-r-r —  ! 
B\r.  You 

Wdl  b3  released  ere  long.     The  King  resolve3 

To  call  the  bride  to  Court  this  day. 
DsBiiK.  Poor  Mauprat! 

Yet  since  you  love  the  lady,  why  so  careless 

Of  the  King's  suit? 

Is  Louis  still  so  chafed  against  the  Fox 

For  snitching  yon  fair  dainty  from  the  Lion  1 
Bar     Si  chafed,  that  Richelieu  totters.     Yes,  the  King 

Is  half  conspirator  against  the  Cardinal. 

Enough  of  this.     I've  found  the  man  we  wanted — 

The  man  to  head  the  hands  that  murder  Richelieu — 

The  man  whose  name  the  synonym  for  daring. 


30  BicnKLimr.  [act  ii. 

De  Ber.  {aside).  He  must  mean  me.  {aloud)  No,  Count,  I  am — I  own, 

A  valiant  dog — but  still 

Bar  Whom  can  I  mean 

But  Mauprat]     Mark,  to-night  we  meet  at  Marion's, 

There  shall  we  sign  ;  thenco  send  this  scroll,    {showing  it)  to 
Bouillon. 

You're  in  that  secret — [affectionately)  one  of  our  new  Council. 
De  Ber.  But  to  admit  the  Spaniard — France's  foe — 

Into  the  heart  of  Fiance — dethrone  the  King — 

It  looks  like  treason,  and  I  smell  the  headsman. 
Bar.    Oh,  sir,  too  late  to  falter  ;  when  we  meet 

We  must  arrange  the  separate — coarser  scheme, 

For  Richelieu's  death.     Of  this  dispatch,  De  Mauprat 

Must  nothing  learn.     He  only  bites  at  vengeance, 

And  he  would  start  from  treason.     We  must  post  him 

Without  the  door  at  Marion's — as  a  sentry. 

[aside)  So.  when  his  head  is  on  the  block — his  tongue 

Cannot  betray  our  most  august  designs. 
De  Ber.  I'll  meet  you  if  the  King  can  spare  me.  (aside)  No  1 

I  am  too  old  a  goose  to  play  with  foxes, 

I'll  roost  at  home,  {aloud)  Meanwhile  in  the  next  room 

There's  a  delicious  pate,  let's  discuss  it. 
Bar.   Pshaw  !  a  man  filled  with  a  sublime  ambition 

Has  no  time  to  discuss  your  pat6s. 
De   Ber.  Pshaw ! 

And  a  man  filled  with  as  sublime  a  pate 

Has  no  time  to  discuss  ambition.     Gad, 

I  have  the  best  of  it  !  [Exit,  r. 

Bar.   Now  will  this  fire  his  fever  into  madness! 

All  is  made  clear  ;  Mauprat  must  murder  Richelieu — 

Die  for  that  crime — I  shall  console  his  Julie — 

This  will  reach  Bouillon — from  the  wrecks  of  France 

I  shall  carve  out — who  knows* — perchance  a  throne! 

All  in  despite  of  my  Lord  Cardinal. 

Enter  De  Mauprat,  l. 

De  Mau.  Speak  !  can  it  be  ?     Methousht,  that  from  the  terrace 

I  saw  the  carriage  of  the  King— and  Julie  ! 

No  ! — no  !  my  frenzy  peoples  the  void  air 

With  its  own  phantoms  ! 
Bar.  Nay,  too  true.     Alas  ! 

Was  ever  lightning  swifter,  or  more  blasting, 

Than  Richelieu's  forked  guile  1 

De  Mac.  I'll  to  the  Louvre 

Bar.    And  lose  all  hope  !     The  Louvre  ! — the  sure  gate 

To  the  Bastile ! 

De  Mau.  The  King 

Bar.  Is  but  the  wax, 

Which  Richelieu  stamps  !     Break  the  malignant  seal, 

And  I  will  raze  the  print. 
De  Mau.  Ghastly  Vengeance  ! 

To  thee,  and  thine  august  and  solemn  sister, 

The  unrelenting  Death,  I  dedicate 

The  blood  of  Armand  Richelieu !     When  Dishonor 

Reaches  our  hearths  Law  dies,  and  Murther  takes 

The  angel  shape  of  Justice  !  {crosses  r.) 


'.] 


RICHELIEU.  31 


Bar.  .  Bravely  said ! 

At  midnight— Marion's  ! — Nay,  I  cannot  leave  thee 
To  thoughts  that 

De  Mau.  Speak  not  to  me  ! — I  am  yours  ! — 

But  speak  not !     There's  a  voice  within  my  soul, 
Whose  cry  could  drown  the  thunder.     Oh  '  if  men 
Will  play  dark  sorcery  with  the  heart  of  man, 
Let  they,  who  raise  the  spell,  beware  the  Fiend  !        [Hxennt,  r. 

SCENE  II  — A  room  in  the  Palais  Cardinal  (as  in  the  First  Act  .     Riche- 
lieu and  Joseph,  l.  d.     Francois  discovered  arranging  the  footstool. 

Jos.  (l.).  Yes  ! — Huguet,  taking  his  accustom 'd  round — 

Disguised  as  some  plain  burger — heard  these  rufflers 
Quoting  your  name  ; — he  listen'd — '  Pshaw!"  said  one, 
"  We  are  to  seize  the  Cardinal  in  his  palace 
To-morrow  !" — "  How  '?"  the  other  ask'd. — "  You'll  hear 
The  whole  design  to-night;  the  Duke  of  Orleans 
And  Baradas  have  got  the  map  of  action 
At  their  fingers'  end."- — '  So  be  it,"  quoth  the  other; 
"I  will  be  there — Marion  de  Lorme's — at  midnight !" 

Rich.  I  have  them,  man. — I  have  them  ! 

Jos.  So  they  say 

Of  you,  my  Lord  ; — believe  me,  that  their  plans 
Are  mightier  than  you  deem.     You  must  employ 
Means  no  less  vast  to  meet  them ! 

Rich.  Bah  !  in  policy 

We  foil  gigantic  danger,  not  by  giants, 
But  dwarfs.     The  statues  of  our  stately  fortune 
Are  sculptured  by  the  chisel — not  the  axe  ! 
Ah !  were  I  younger — by  the  knightly  heart 
That  beats  beneath  these  priestly  robes,  I  would 
Have  pastime  with  these  cut-throats  !     Yea — as  when, 
Lured  to  the  ambush  of  the  expecting  foe — 
I  clove  my  pathway  through  the  plumed  sea ! 
Reach  me  yon  falchion,  Francois — not  that  bauble 
For  carpet-warriors, — yonder — such  a  blade 
As  old  Charles  Martel  might  have  wielded  when 
He  drove  the  Saracen  from  i  ranee.    (Francois  brings  him  one  of 
the  long  two-handed  sivords  worn  in  the  middle  ages)  With  this 
I,  at  Rochelle,  did  hand  to  hand  engage 
The  stalwart  Englisher — no  mongrels,  boy, 
Those  island  mastiffs — mark  the  notch — a  deep  one — 
His  casque  made  here, — I  shore  him  to  the  waist ! 
A  toy — a  feather — then  !  (tries  to  wield,  and  lets  it  fall)  You  see,  a 

child  could 
Slay  Richelieu  now.   (retires  to  the  table  and  sits  r.) 

Fran,  (his  hand  on  his  hilt).  But  now,  at  your  command. 
Are  other  weapons,  my  good  Lord. 

Rich,   (ivho  has  seated  himself  as  to  write,  lifts  the  pen).  True — This  ! 
Beneath  the  rule  of  men  entirely  great 
The  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword.     Behold 
The  arch-enchanter's  wand  ! — itself  a  nothing! — 
But  taking  sorcery  from  the  master-hand 
To  paralyze  the  Caesars — and  to  strike 
The  loud  earth  breathless  ! — Take  away  the  sword — 


32  BICHKLIKtT.  [aCI   II. 

States  can  be  saved  without  it !  {looking  at  the  clock.    .Frahcois  re- 
places the  sword)  "fis  the  hour — 
Rnire,  sir. 

FrAN$OIS  crosses  behind  and  exits,  n.  d.  Three  knocks  are  heard,  h.  V.  E. 
Richkliku  repeats  them.  A  door  concealed  in  the  arras  is  opened  cau- 
tiously.     Enter  Marion  de  Lobmb,  l  u.  e. 

Jos.  [amazed).  Marion  de  Lonne  !  (she  passes  behind  to  the  r.  of  Richelieu.) 
Rich.  Ili^t  I     Joseph, 

K  sep  guard.   (Joseph  retires,  d.  it.)   My  faithful  Marion  ! 
Marion  [kneeling).  Good,  my  Lord, 

They  meet  to-night  in  my  poor  hoase.     The  Duke 

Of  Orleans  heads  them. 
Rich.  Yes — go  on. 

Mar.  His  Highness 

Much  questioned  if  I  knew  some  brave,  discreet, 

And  vigilant  man,  whose  tongue  could  keep  a  secret, 

And  who  had  those  twin  qualities  for  service, 

The  love  of  gold,  the  hate  of  Richelieu. 
Rich.  You  ?— 

Mar     Made  answer,  "  Yes— my  brother;  bold  ami  trusty; 

Whose  faith  my  faith  could  pledge;" — the  Duke  then  bade  me 

11  ive  him  equipp'd  and  arm'd — well-mounted — ready 

This  niglit  'part  for  Italy. 
Rich.  Aha! — 

His  Bouillon  too  turn'd  traitor?     So,  methought! — 

What  part  of  Italy  1 
Mar  The  Piedmont  frontier, 

Where  Bouillon  lies  encamp  il. 
Rich.  Now  there  is  danger 

G  ent  danger  !     If  he  tamper  with  the  Spaniard, 

An  1  Louis  list  not  to  my  counsel,  as, 

Without  sure  proof,  he  will  not — France  is  lost. 

W  hat  more  7 
Mar.  Dark  hints  of  some  design  to  seize 

Your  person  in  your  palace.     Nothing  clear — 

His  Highness  trembled  while  he  spoke — the  words 

Did  choke  each  other. 
Rich.  So  ! — who  is  the  brother 

You  recommended  to  the  Duke  ? 
Mar.  Whoever 

Your  Eminence  may  father  ! 
Rich.  Darling  Marion  ! 

(rises  and  goes  to  the  table,  and  returns  tcith  a  large  purse  of  gold) 

There — pshaw — a  trifle!   [gives  the  purse  to  Marion) 

You  are  sure  they  meet  1 — the  hour  1 
Mar.  At  midnight. 

Rich.  And 

You  will  engage  to  give  the  Duke's  dispatch 

To  whom  I  send  1 
Mar.  Ay,  marry ! 

Rich.   (aside).  Huguetl     No; 

He  will  be  wanted  elsewhere — Joseph  1 — zealous, 

But  too  well  known — too  much  the  elder  brother! 

Mauprat — alas — it  is  his  wedding  day — 

Francois  ? — the  man  of  men  ! — unnoted — young — 


ACT  II.]  RICHELIEU.  33 

Ambitious,  {goes  to  the  door)  Franqois  ! 
Enter  Francois,  b.  d. 

Follow  this  fair  lady  ; 

(Find  him  the  suiting  garments,  Marion),  take 

My  fleetest  steed  ;  arm  thyself  to  the  teeth  ; 

A  packet  will  be  given  you — with  orders, 

No  matter  what !     The  instant  that  your  hand 

Closes  upon  it — clutch  it,  like  your  honor, 

Which  Death  alone  can  steal,  or  ravish — set 

Spurs  to  your  steed — be  breathless,  till  you  stand 

Again  before  me.  (Francois  is  going)  Stay,  sir!     You  will  find 
me 

Two  short  leagues  hence — at  Ruelle,  in  my  castle. 

Young  man,  be  blithe — for — note  me — from  the  hour 

1  grasp  that  packet — think  your  guiding  star 

Rains  fortune  on  you. 

Fran.  If  I  fail 

Rich.  Fail— fail  ? 

In  the  lexicon  of  youth,  which  Fate  reserves 

For  a  bright  manhood,  there  is  no  such  word 

As— fail !  (You  will  instruct  him  further,  Marion., 

(Marion  crosses  behind  to  l.  u.  e.) 

Follow  her — but  at  a  distance — speak  not  to  her, 

Till  you  are  housed.     Farewell,  boy  !     Never  say 

"  Fail"  again. 
Fran.  I  will  not ! 

Rich,  (patting  his  locks).  There's  my  young  hero  ! 

[Exeunt  Francois  and  Marion,  l.  u.  e. 

So  they  would  seize  my  person  in  this  palace "? 

I  cannot  guess  their  scheme — but  my  retinue 

Is  here  too  large  !  a  single  traitor  could 

Strike  impotent  the  fate  of  thousands.     Joseph, 

Enter  Joseph,  k.  d. 

Art  sure  of  Huguet  1  Think — we  hanged  his  father  ! 
Jos.  But  you  have  bought  the  son — heaped  favors  on  him  ! 
Rich.  Trash! — favors  past— that's' nothing,  {crosses,  l.)  In  his  hours 

Of  confidence  with  you,  has  he  named  the  favors 

To  come — he  counts  on  1 
Jos.  Yes — a  Colonel's  rank, 

And  letters  of  nobility. 

Here  Huguet  enters,  l.  d.,  as  to  address  th-e  Cardinal,  icho  does  not  perceive 

h  im. 

Rich.  What,  Huguet  !— 

Huguet  {aside).  My  own  name,  soft!  {retires  and  listens.) 

Rich.  Colonel  and  nobleman! 

My  bashful  Huguet — that  can  never  be  ! 

We  have  him  not  the  less — we'll  promise  it  ! 

And  see  the  King  withholds !     Ah,  Kings  are  oft 

A  great  convenience  to  a  minister  ! 

No  wrong  to  Huguet  either.     Moralists 


;54  EICHELIEU. 


[ACT  II. 


Say,  Hope  is  sweeter  than  possession  !     Yes  ! 

We'll  count  on  Huguet ! 
Huguet.  Ay,  to  thy  cost,  thou  tyrant !  [Exit,  l.  d. 

Rich.  You  are  right ;  this  treason 

Assumes  a  fearful  aspect — Dut,  once  crushed, 

Its  very  ashes  shall  manure  the  soil 

Of  i>o\ver  ;  and  ripen  such  full  sheaves  of  greatness, 

That  all  the  summer  of  my  fate  shall  seem 

Fruitless  beside  the  autumn. 
Jos  The  saints  grant  it ! 

Ricu.  {solemnly).  Yes — for  sweet  Fiance,  Heaven  orant  it  !     0  my 
country, 

For  thee — thee  only — though  men  deem  it  not — 

Are  toil  and  terror  my  familiars  !     I 

Have  made  thee  great  and  fair — upon  thy  brows 

Wreath'd  the  old  Roman  laurel  ;   at  thy  feel 

Bow'd  nations  down.     No  pulse  in  my  ambition 

Whose  beatings  were  not  measured  for  thy  heart ! 

And  while  I  live — Richelieu  and  France  are  one.  (crosses  to  R.) 

Enter  Huguet,  l   d. 

Huguet.  My  Lord  Cardinal, 

Your  Eminence  bade  me  seek  you  at  this  hour. 
Ricu.  [crosting^  0.).  Did  I  "?     True,  Huguet.     So  you  overheard 

Strange  talk  amongst  these  gallants  1     Snares  and  traps 

For  Richelieu  1     Well — we'll  balk  them  ;   let  me  think — 

The  men-at-arms  you  head — how  many  1 
Huguet.  Twenty 

My  Lord. 
Rich.  All  trusty  ? 

Huguet.  -Ay,  my  Lord. 

Rim.  Ere  the  dawn  be  gray. 

All  could  be  arm'd,  assembled,  and  at  Ruelle 

In  my  own  hall  1 
Huguet.  By  one  hour  after  midnight. 

Rich.  The  castle's  strong.     You  know  its  outlets,  Hucruet  ? 

Would  twenty  men,  well  posted,  keep  such  guard 

That  not  one  step — (and  Murther's  step  is  stealthy) — 

Could  glide  within — unseen  1 
Huguet.  A  triple  wall — 

A  drawbridge  and  portcullis — twenty  men 

Under  my  lead,  a  month  might  hold  that  castle 

Against  a  host. 
Rich.  They  do  not  strike  till  morning, 

Yet  I  will  shift  the  quarter.     Bid  the  "rooms 

Prepare  the  litter — I  will  hence  to  Ruelle 

While  daylight  lasts — and  one  hour  after  midnight 

You  and  your  twenty  saints  shall  seek  me  thither! 

You're  made  to  rise  !     You  are,  sir  ;  eyes  of  lynx, 

Eats  of  the  sta«,  a  footfall  like  the  snow; 

You  are  a  valiant  fellow — yea,  a  trusty, 

Religious,  exemplary,  incorrupt, 

And  precious  jewel  of  a  fellow,  Huguet ! 

If  1  live  long  enough — ay,  mark  my  words — 

If  I  live  long  enough,  you'll  be  a  Colonel — 

Noble,  perhaps !     One  hour,  sir,  after  midnight. 


ACT  III.]  BICHKLIKU. 

Huguet.  You  leave  me  dumb  with  gratitude,  my  Lord  ; 

I'll  pick  the  trustiest — {aside)— Marion's  house  can  furnish. 

[Exit  Huguet,  l  d. 

K,1CH.  Good — all  favors, 

If  Franqois  be  but  bold,  and  Huguet  honest. 
Huguet — 1  half  suspect — he  bow'd  too  low — 
'Tis  not  his  way. 

Jos.  This  is  the  curse,  my  Lord, 

Of  your  high  state— suspicion  of  all  men. 

Rich,  (sadly).  True— true— my  leeches  bribed  to  poisoners— pages 
To  strangle  me  in  sleep.     My  very  King 
(This  brain  the  unresting  loom,  from  which  was  woven 
The  purple  of  his  greatness)  leagued  against  me. 
Old— childless— friendless— broken— all  forsake- 
All— all— but 

Jos.  What  ? 

Rich.  The  indomitable  heart 

Of  Armand  Richelieu  !  (crosses  r.) 

J.  s  And  Joseph 

Rich    (after  a  pause).  You 

Yes,  I  believe  you — yes — for  all  men  fear  you — 

And  the  world'loves  you  not.     And  I,  friend  Joseph, 

I  am  the  only  man  who  could,  my  Joseph, 

Make  you  a  Bishop.     Come,  we'll  go  to  dinner. 

And  talk  the  while  of  methods  to  advance 

Our  Mother  Church.     Ah,  Joseph—  Bishop  Joseph  !  [Exeunt,  k. 


35 


ACT  III. 

SECOND    DAY   (MIDNIGHT). 

SCENE  I. — Richelieu's  Castle  at  Ruelle.  A  Gothic  Clwmber.    Moonlight  at 
the  window,  occasionally  obscured.      Large  doors  c.  ;    small  doors  k.  and  l. 

Rich,  (reading).  '•  In  silence,  and  at  night,  the  Conscience  feels 
That  life  should  soar  to  nobler  ends  than  Power." 
So  sayest  thou,  sage  and  sober  moralist ! 
0  !  ye,  whose  hour-glass  shifts  its  tranquil  sands 
In  the  unvex'd  silence  of  a  student's  cell ; 
Ye,  whose  untempted  hearts  have  never  toss'd 
Upon  the  dark  and  stormy  tides  where  life 
Gives  battle  to  the  elements — 

Ye.  safe  and  formal  men, 
Who  write  the  deeds,  and  with  unfeverish  hand 
Weigh  in  nice  scales  the  motives  of  the  Great, 
Ye  cannot  know  what  ye  have  never  tried  ! 
Speak  to  me,  moralist !— I'll  heed  thy  counsel. 
Were  it  not  best 

Enter  Francois  hastily,  and  in  part  disguised,  d.  l.  s.  e. 

Rich.   (  flinging  away  the  book).  Philosophy,  thou  best! 

Quick— the  dispatch  !     Power— Empire  !     Boy— the  packet! 


36  BICtlELllX.  [A.CC  II. 

Fi:an.  [kneeling).  Kill  me,  tny  Lord  ! 

Rich.  They  knew  tliee — they  suspected— 

They  gave  it  not 

Fran.  He  gave  it — he — the  Count 

Da  Baradas — with  his  own  liand  he  gave  it! 
Rich.  Baradas  !     Joy  !  out  with  it! 
Fran.  Listen, 

And  then  dismiss  me  to  the  headsman. 
Rich.  Ha ! 

Go  on. 
Fran.  They  led  me  to  a  chamber — There 

Orleans  and  Baradas — and  some  half-score, 

Whom  I  know  not — were  met 

Rich.  Not  more! 

Fran.  But  from 

The  adjoining  chamber  broke  the  din  of  voices, 

The  clattering  tread  of  armed  men  ;  at  times 

A  shriller  cry,  that  yell'd  out,  "  D^ath  to  Richelieu  I" 
Rich.  Speak  not  of  me  ;  thy  country  is  in  danger! 
Fran.  Baradas 

Questional  me  close — demurr'd — until,  at  last, 

O'erruled  by  Orleans — gave  the  packet — told  me 

That  life  and  death  were  in  the  scroll — this  gold — [showing purse.) 

Rich.  Gold  is  no  proof 

R«>'N.  And  Orleans  promised  thousands, 

When  Bouillon's  trumpets  in  the  streets  of  Paris 

Rang  out  shrill  answer.     Hastening  from  the  house, 

My  footstep  in  the  stirrup,  Marion  stole 

Across  the  threshold,  whispering,  "  Lose  no  moment 

Ere  Richelieu  have  the  packet  ;  tell  him  too — 

Murder  is  in  the  winds  of  Night,  and  Orleans 

Swears,  ere  the  dawn  the  Cardinal  shall  be  clay." 

She  said,  and  trembling  fled  within  ;  when,  lo  ! 

A  hand  of  iron  griped  me;   thro'  the  dark 

Gleam'd  the  dim  shadow  of  an  armed  man  ; 

Ere  I  could  draw — the  priz9  was  wrested  from  me, 

And  a  hoarse  voice  ^asp'd — "  Spy,  I  spare  thee,  for 

This  steel  is  virgin  to  thy  Lord  !"  with  that 

He  vanish'd      Scared  and  trembling  for  thy  safety, 

I  mounted,  fled,  and  kneeling  at  thy  feet 

Implore  thee  to  acquit  my  faith — but  not, 

Like  him,  to  spare  my  life. 
Rich.  Who  spake  of  life  ? 

I  bade  thee  grasp  that  treasure  as  thine  honor — 

A  jewel  worth  whole  hecatombs  of  lives  !  (rises) 

Begone  ' — ecle?m  lliine  honor — back  to  Marion — 

Or  Baradas — or  Orleans — track  the  robber — 

Regain  the  packet — or  crawl  on  to  Agp — 

Age  and  gray  hairs  like  mine — and  know,  thou  hast  lost 

That  which  had  made  thee  great  and  saved  thy  country,  (crosses, 
R.     Francois  rises) 

See  me  not  till  thou'st  bought  the  right  to  seek  me. 

Away  ! — Nav,  cheer  thee,  thou  hast  not  fail'd  yet — 

There  s  no  such  word  as  fail  !  " 
Fran.  Bless  you,  my  Lml, 

For  that  one  smile  !  [Exit,  l.  d. 

Rich.  He  will  win  it  yet. 


[ACr  III.  RICHELIEU.  37 

Francois  ' — He's  gone.     My  murder  !     Marion's  warning ! 

This  bravo's  threat !     0  for  the  morrow's  dawn! 

I'll  set  my  spies  to  work — I'll  make  all  space 

(As  does  the  sun)  a  Universal  Eye — 

Huguet  shall  track — Joseph  confess — ha  !  ha  ! 

Strange,  while  I  laugh'd  I  shudder'd — and  e'en  now 

Thro'  the  chill  air  the  beating  of  my  heart 

Sounds  like  a  death-watch  by  a  sick  man's  pillow ; 

If  Huguet  could  deceive  me — hoofs  without — 

The  gates  unclose — steps  nearer  and  nearer  ! 

Enttr  Julie,  l   d.  s.  e. 
Julie.  Cardinal ! 

My  father!  {falls  at  his  feet.) 
Rich.  Julie  at  this  hour! — and  tears  ! 

What  ails  thee  1 
Julie.  I  am  safe  ;  I  am  with  thee  ! — 

Rich.  Safe ! 
Julie.  That  man — 

Why  did  I  love  him  1 — clinging  to  a  breast 

That  knows  no  shelter? 

Listen — late  at  noon — 

The  marriage-day — e'en  then  no  more  a  lover — 

He  left  me  coldly — well — I  sought  my  chamber 

To  weep  and  wonder— but  to  hope  and  dream. 

Sudden  a  mandate  from  the  Kins — to  attend 

Forthwith  his  pleasure  at  the  Louvre. 
Rich.  ~  Ha ! 

You  did  obey  the  summons  ;  and  the  King 

Reproach'd  your  hasty  nuptials'? 
Julie.      ■  Were  that  all ! 

He  frown'S  and  chid  ;  proclaim'd  the  bond  unlawful ; 

Bade  me  not  quit  my  chamber  in  the  palace, 

And  there  at  night — alone — this  niaht — all  still — 

He  sought  my  presence — dared — thou  read'st  the  heart, 

Read  mine  !  I  cannot  speak  it ! 
Rich.  He  a  king — 

You — woman  ;  well — you  yielded  ! 
Julie.  Cardinal — 

Dare  you  say  "  yielded  ?'' — Humbled  and  abash'd, 

He  from  the  chamber  crept — th 's  mighty  Louis  ; 

Crept  like  a  baffled  felon  ' — yielded  ?     Ah  ! 

More  royalty  in  woman's  honest  heart 

Than  dwells  within  the  crowned  majesty 

And  sceptred  anger  of  a  hundred  kings! 

Yielded  ! — Heavens  !— yielded  !    {aoes  l.) 
Rich.  To  my  breast. — close — close!  {they  embrace) 

The  world  would  never  need  a  Richelieu,  if 

Men — bearded,  mailed  men — the  Lords  of  Earth — 

Resisted  flattery,  falsehood,  avarice,  pride 

As  this  poor  child  with  the  dove's  innocent  scorn 

Her  sex"s  tempters,  Vanity  and  Power  ! 

He  left  you— well "? 
Julie.  Then  came  a  sharper  trial ! 

At  the  King's  suit  the  Count  de  Baradas 

Sought  me  to  soothe,  to  fawn,  to  flatter,  while 

On  his  smooth  lip  insult  appear'd  more  hateful. 


38  lilCHELlEP.  [aCX  III. 

Stung  at  last 

By  my  disdain,  the  dim  and  glimmering  sense 

Of  Ids  cloak'd  words  broke  into  bolder  light, 

And  then — ah  !  then,  my  haughty  spirit  fail'd  me! 

Then  I  was  weak — wept — oh  !  such  bitter  tears  ! 

For  (turn  thy  face  aside,  and  let  me  whisper 

The  horror  to  thine  ear)  then  did  I  learn 

That  he — that  Adrien — my  husband — knew 

The  King's  polluting  suit,  and  deemed  it  honor  ! 

Th>n  all  the  terrible  and  loathesotne  truth 

Glared  on  me; — coldness,  waywardness,  reserve — 

Mystery  of  looks — words — all   unravell'd — and 

I  saw  the  impostor,  where  I  had  loved  the  god! 
Ricu.  I  think  thou  wrong'st  thy  husband — but  proceed. 
Julie.  Did  you  say  '•  wrong'd  "  him  1 — Cardinal,  my  father, 

Did  you  say  "  wrong'd  1"     Prove  it,  and  life  shall  grow 

One  prayer  for  thy  reward  and  his  forgiveness. 
Rich.   Let  me  know  all. 
Julie.  To  the  despair  he  caused 

The  courtier  left  me ;  but  amid  the  chaos 

Darted  one  guiding  ray — to  'scape? — to  fly — 

Reach  Adrien,  learn  the  worst — 'twas  then  near  midnight ; 

Trembling  I  left  my  chamber — sought  the  Queen — 

Fell  a    her  feet — reveaPd  the  unholy  peril — 

Implored  her  aid  to  flee  our  joint  disgrace. 

Moved,  she  embraced  and  soothed  me — nay,  preserved  ; 

He,  word  sufficed  to  unlock  the  palace  gates  ; 

I  hasten' d  home — but  home  was  desolate — 

No  Adrien  there !     Fearing  the  worst,  I  fled 

To  thee,s  directed  hither.     As  my  wheels 

Paused  at  thy  gates — the  clang  of  arms  behind —  • 

The  ring  of  hoofs 

Rich.  'Twas  but  my  guards,  fair  trembler. 

(So  Huguet  keeps  his  word,  my  omens  wrong'd  him.) 
Julie.  Oh,  in  one  hour  what  years  of  anguish  crowd  ! 
Rich.  Nay,  there's  no  danger  now.     Thou  needst  rest,  (takes  a  lamp 
from  the  table,  c.) 

Come,  thou  shalt  lodge  beside  me.     Tush  !  be  cheer'd, 

My  rosiest  Amazon — thou  wrong'st  thy  Theseus. 

All  will  be  well — yes,  yet  all  well. 

[Exeunt  through  a  side  door.  r.  s.  e. 

Enter   Huguet — De    Mauprat,  l.  d.,  in  complete  armor,  his  vizor  dowt  . 
The  moonlight  obscured  at  the  casement. 

Huguet.  Not  here ! 

De  Mau.  Oh,  I  will  find  him,  fear  not.     Hence  and  guard  (crosses,  r... 

The  galleries  where  the  menials  sleep — plant  sentries 

At  every  outlet — Chance  should  throw  no  shadow 

Between  the  vengeance  and  the  victim  !     Go — 
Huguet.  Will  you  not  want 

A  second  arm  ? 
De  Mau.  To  slay  one  weak  old  man  1 

Away  !     No  lesser  wrongs  than  mine  can  make 

This  murder  lawful.     Hence ! 
Huguet.  A  short  farewell  ! 

[Exit  Huguet,  l.  d.   De  Mauprat  conceals  himself ,  r. 


ACT  III.]  RICHELIEU.  °" 

Re-enter  Richelieu,  not  perceiving  De  Mauprat,  r.  d. 

Rich.  How  heavy  is  the  air  !  {goes  to  the  table  and  puts  down  the  lamp.) 

The  very  darkness  lends  itself  to  fear-r 

To  treason 

De  Mau.  And  to  death  !  ■ 

RlCH  My  omens  lied  not ! 

What  art  thou,  wretch  1 
De  Mau  Thy  doomsman! 

Rich.  (De  Mauprat  seizes  him).  Ho,  my  guards  ! 

Huffuet !  Montbrassil !  Vermont ! 
DeMau  Ay  thy  spirits 

Forsake  thee,  wizard  ;  thy  bold  men  of  mail 
Are  my  confederaUs.     Stir  not !  but  one  step, 
And  know  the  next— thy  grave  ! 
Ricu  Thou  best,  knave  ! 

'  I  am  old,  infirm— most  feeble— but  thou  liest!  (Richelieu  throws 
him  off) 
Armand  de  Richelieu  dies  not  by  the  hand 
Of  man— the  stars  have  said  it— and  the  voice 
Of  my  own  prophetic  and  oracular  soul 
Confirms  the  shining  sibyls  !     Call  them  all— 
Thy  brother  butchers !     Earth  lias  no  such  fiend- 
No  !  as  one  parricide  of  his  fatherland, 
Who  dares  in  Richelieu  murder  France  !  {goes  l.) 
De  Mau.  Thy  stars 

Deceive  thee,  Cardinal ; 
In  his  hot  youth,  a  soldier,  urged  to  crime 
Against  the  State,  placed  in  your  hands  his  life— 
You  did  not  strike  the  blow— but  o'er  his  head, 
Upon  the  gossamer  thread  of  your  caprice, 
Hover'd  the  axe. 

One  day  you  summon'd— mock'd  him  with  smooth  pardon- 
Bade  an  angel's  face 

Turn  Earth  to  Paradise 

Rich  Wel1 ! 

De  Mau.  w.as  this  mercy  1 

A  Caesar's  generous  vengeance  ?     Cardinal,  no ! 
Judas,  not  Caesar  was  the  model !     You 
Saved  him  from  death  for  shame  ;  reserved  to  grow 
The  scorn  of  living  men — 
A  kind  convenience — a  Sir  Pandarus 
To  his  own  bride,  and  the  august  adulterer! 
Then  did  the  first  great  law  of  human  hearts, 
To  which  the  patriot's,  not  the  rebel's  name, 
Crown' d  the  first  Brutus,  when  the  Tarquin  fell, 
Make  Misery  roval— raise  this  desperate  wretch 
Into  thy  destiny  !     Expect  no  mercy! 
Behold  De  Mauprat !  {lifts  his  vizor.) 
Rich.  To  thy  knees,  and  crawl 

For  pardon,  or,  I  tell  thee,  thou  shalt  live 
For  such  remorse,  that,  did  I  hate  thee,  I 
Would  bid  thee  strike,  that  I  might  be  avenged! 
It  was  to  save  my  Julie  from  the  King, 
That  in  thy  valor  I  forgave  thy  crime  ; 
It  was,  when  thou— the  rash  and  ready  tool- 
Yea  of  that  shame  thou  loath'st— didst  leave  thy  hearth 


40  BlCHKLIfc-U.  [ACI  III. 

To  the  polluter — in  these  arms  thy  bride 

Found  the  protecting  shelter  thine  withheld,  (goes  to  side  door,  r.  ) 

Julie  De  Mauprat — Julie!  (Mauprat  crosses  to  l.  ) 

Enter  Julie. 

Lo,  my  witness ! 
De  Map.  (l.).  What  marvel's  this  ?     I  dream  !   my  Julie — thou! 
Julie  (l.).  Henceforth  all  bond 

Between  us  twain  is  broken.     Were  it  not 

For  this  old  man,  1  might,  in  truth,  have  lost 

The  right — now  mine — to  scorn  thee  ! 
Rich.  I  c).  So,  you  hear  her  1 

De  Mau.  Thou  with  some  slander  hast  her  sense  infected  ! 
Julie.  No,  sir  ;  he  did  excuse  thee.     Thy  friend — 

Thy  confidant — familiar — Baradas — 

Himself  reveal 'd  thy  baseuess  ! 
De  Mau.  Baseness: 

Rich.  Ay ; 

That  thou  didst  court  dishonor. 
De  Mau.  Baradas  ! 

Where  is  thy  thunder,  Heaven  1     Duped — snared — undone — 
(sheaths  his  sword) 

Thou — thou  couldst  not  believe  him  !     Thou  dost  love  me  ! 
Julie  (aside).  Love  him  !     Ah  ! 

Be  still,  my  heart !  (aloud)  Love  you  I  did  ! — how  fondly 

Woman — if  women  were  my  listeners  now — 

Alone  could  tell !     For  ever  fled  my  dream  ; 

Farewell — all's  over  ! 
Rich.  Nay,  my  daughter,  these 

Are  but  the  blinding  mists  of  daybreak  love 

Sprung  from  its  very  light,  and  heralding 

A  noon  of  happy  summer.     Take  her  hand 

And  speak  the  truth,  with  which  your  heart  runs  over — 

That  this  Count  Judas— this  Incarnate  Falsehood — 

Never  lied  more,  than  when  he  told  thy  Julie 

That  Adrien  loved  her  not — except,  indeed, 

When  he  told  Adrien,  Julie  could  betray  him.  (Mauprat  crosses  to 
Julie.) 
Julie  (embracing  De  Mauprat).  You  love  me,  then! — you  love  me' — 

and  they  wrong'd  you  ! 
De  Mau.  Ah  !  couldst  thou  doubt  it  1 
Rich.  Why,  the  very  mole 

Less  blind  than  thou  !     Baradas  loves  thy  wife  ! — 

Had  hoped  her  hand— aspired  to  be  that  cloak 

To  the  King's  will,  which  to  thy  bluntness  seems 

The  Centaur's  poisonous  robe — hopes  even  now 

To  make  thy  corpse  his  footstool  to  thy  bed  ! 

Where  was  thy  wit,  man  ? — Ho  !   these  schemes  are  glass  ! 

The  very  sun  shines  through  them. 
De  Mau.  0,  my  Lord, 

Can  you  forgive  me  1 
Rich.  Ay,  and  save  you  ! 

De  Mau.  Save  ! — 

Terrible  word  !—  O,  save  thyself  ; — these  halls 

Swarm  with  thy  foes ;  already  for  thy  blood 

Pants  thirsty  Murder  !  (draws  his  sivord.) 


ACT  ITI.]  RICHELIEU.  41 

Julie.  Murder! 

Ricu.  Hush  !  put  by 

The  woman.     Hush  !  a  shriek— a  cry— a  breath 
Too  loud,  would  startle  from  its  horrent  pause 
The  swooping  Death  !     Go  to  the  door,  and  listen  !     „ 
Now  for  escape  !    (crosses  r.     Julie  kneels  at  the  door  listening.) 
De  Mau.  None— none  !     Their  blades  shall  pass 

This  heart  to  thine  ! 
Rich,  [dryly).  An  honorable  outwork, 

But  much  too  near  the  citadel.     I  think 
That  I  can   trust  you  now  ;  {slotvly,  and  gazing  on  him)  yes,  I  can 

trust  you. 
How  many  of  my  troop  league  with  you  ? 
De  Mau.  A11  ■'— 

We  are  your  troop  ! 
Rich.  And  Huguet  ? 

De  Mau.  Is  our  captain. 

{watches  the  door  and  stands  prepared  for  defence.) 
Rich.  A  retributive  Power  !     This  comes  of  spies  ! 

All  "?  then  the  lion's  skin's  too  short  to-night — 
Now  for  the  fox's  ! — (murmurs  without.) 
Julie.  A  hoarse,  gathering  murmur! — 

Hurrrying  and  heavy  footsteps  ! 
rich.  Ha  ! — the  posterns  ! 

De  Mau.  No  egress  where  no  sentry ! 
Rich.  Follow  me— 

I  have  it  ! — to  my  chamber — quick  !     Come,  Julie  ! 
Hush!     Mauprat,  come ! 

[Exit  Julie,  De  Mauprat,  and  Richelieu,  c.  d. 
murmurs  at  a  distance).  Death  to  the  Cardinal ! 
Rich,  (without).  Bloodhounds,  I  laugh  at  ye  !— ha  !  ha  !— we  will 

Baffle  them  yet.     Ha  !  ha  ! 
Huguet  (tvithout).  This  way— this  way  ! 

Enter  Hcguet  and  the  Conspirators,  l.  u.  e. 

Huguet.  De  Mauprat's  hand  is  never  slow  in  battle  ; 

Strange,  if  it  falter  now  !     Ha!  gone  ! 
First  Con.  Perchance 

The  fox  had  crept  to  rest ;  and  to  his  lair 

Death,  the  dark  hunter,  tracks  him. 

Enter  De  Mauprat,  throioing  open  the  doors  of  the  recess,  c,  in  which  there 
is  a  bed,  whereon  Richelieu  lies  extended. 

Ds  Mau.  Live  the  King  ; 

Richelieu  is  dead ! 

Huguet.  You  have  been  long. 

DE  Mau.  I  watch'd  him  till  he  slept. 

Heed  me.     No  trace  of  blood  reveals  the  deed  ; — 
Strangled  in  sleep.     His  health  hath  long  been  broken- 
Found  breathless  in  his  bed.     So  runs  our  tale, 
Remember  !     Back  to  Paris — Orleans  gives 
Ten  thousand  crowns,  and  Baradas  a  lordship, 
To  him  who  first  gluts  vengeance  with  the  news 
That  Richelieu  is  in  heaven  !     Quick,  that  all  France 
May  share  your  joy  ! 


42  BICtl-ELlEU.  [ACT  III. 

Huguet.  And  you  1 

De  Mau.  Will  stay,  to  crush 

Eager  suspicion — to  forbid  sharp  eyes 

To  dwell  too  closely  on  the  clay  ;   prepare 

The  rites,  and  place  hilll  Oil  his  bier— this  my  task. 

I  leave  to  you,  sirs,  the  more  grateful  lot 

Of  wealth  and  honors.     Hence  ! 
Huguet.  I  shall  be  noble  ! 

De  Mau.  Away ! 

First  Con.  Ten  thousand  crowns  ! 

Omnes.  To  horse  ! — to  horse  ! 

[Exeunt  Conspirators,  l.  s.  e.     De  Mauprat  stands  on  guard, 

SCENE  II. — A  room  in  the  house  of  Count  de  Baradas.     Orleans  and 
De  Bbbinghbn,  r. 

De  Ber.  I  understand.     Mauprat  kept  guard  without ; 

Knows  naught  of  the  dispatch — but  heads  the  troop 
Whom  the  poor  Cardinal  fancies  his  protectors. 
Save  us  from  such  protection  ! 

Enter  Baradas,  r. 

Bar.     Julie  is  fled  ; — the  Kins,  whom  I  now  left 

To  a  most  thorny  pillow,  vows  revenge 

On  her — on  Mauprat — and  on  Richelieu  !     Well  ; 

We  loyal  men  anticipate  his  wish 

Upon  "the  last — and  as  for  Mauprat — {showing  a  writ.) 
De  Ber.  H"m  ! 

They  say  the  devil  invented  printins  !     Faith  ! 

He  has  some  hand  in  writing  parchment — ih,  Count? 

What  mischief  now  1 
BAR.  The  Kins,  at  Julie's  flight 

Enraged,  will  brook  no  rival  in  a  subject — 

So  on  this  old  offence — the  affair  of  Faviaux — 

Ere  Mauprat  can  tell  tales  of  us,  we  build 

His  bridge  between  the  dungeon  and  the  grave. 

Oh  !  by  the  way — I  had  forgot  your  highness, 

Friend  Huguet  whispered  me,  "  Beware  of  Marion  ; 

I've  seen  her  lurking  near  the  Cardinal's  palace." 

Upon  that  hint,  I've  found  her  lodgings  elsewhere. 
Orleans.  You  wrong  her,  Count.     Poor  Marion !  she  adores  me. 
Bar.  {apologetically').  Forgive  me,  but 

Enter  Page,  r. 

pAGE.  My  Lord,  a  rude,  strange  soldier, 

Breathless  with  haste,  demands  an  audience. 
Bar.  So  ! 

The  archers  1 
pAGE.  In  the  ante-room,  my  Lord, 

As  you  desired. 
BAr.  'Tis  well — admit  the  soldier.        [Exit  Page   r. 

Huguet — I  bade  him  seek  me  here. 

Enter  Huguet,  r. 


[Ad  III.  RICHFLIKTX.  43 

Huguet.  My  Lords, 

The  deed  is  done.     Now,  Count,  fulfill  your  word, 

And  make  me  noble  ! 
Bar.  Richelieu  dead  1 — art  sure  1 

How  died  he  ? 
Huguet.  Strangled  in  his  sleep — no  hlood, 

No  tell-tale  violence. 
Bar.  Strangled  1 — monstrous  villain  ! 

Reward  for  murder  !     Ho,  there  !   (stamping.) 

Enter  Captain  xoith  five  Archers,  r. 

Hctguet.  No,  thou  durst  not ! 

Bar.   Seize  on  the  ruffian — bind  him — gag  him — (they  seize  him)  Off 

To  the  Bastile ! 
Huguet.  Your  word — your  plighted  faith  ! 

Bar.    Insolent  liar  ! — ho,  away  ! 
Huguet.  Nay,  Count ; 

I  have  that  about  me  which 

Bar.  Away  with  him  ! 

[Exeunt  Huguet  and  Archers,  r. 

Now,  then,  all's  safe  ;  Huguet  must  die  in  prison, 

So  Mauprat — coax  or  force  the  meaner  crew 

To  fly  the  country.     Ha,  ha  !  thus,  your  highness. 

Great  men  make  use  of  little  men. 
De  Ber.  My  Lords, 

Since  our  suspense  is  ended — you'll  excuse  me  ; 

'Tis  late — and  entre  nous,  I  have  not  supp'd  yet! 

I'm  one  of  the  new  Council  now,  remember  ; 

I  feel  the  public  stirring  here  already  ; 

A  very  craving  monster.     An  revoir !    [ExitDp,  Berixghen,  r. 
Orleans.  No  fear  now,  Richelieu's  dead. 
Bar.  And  could  he  come 

To  life  again,  he  could  not  keep  life's  life — 

His  power — nor  save  De  Mauprat  from  the  scaffold — 

Nor  Julie  from  these  arms — nor  Paris  from 

The  Spaniard — nor  your  highness  from  the  throne ! 

All  ours  !  all  ours  !  in  spite  of  my  Lord  Cardinal ! 

Enter  Page,  r. 

Page.  A  gentleman,  my  Lord,  of  better  mien 

Than  he  who  last 

Bar.  Well,  he  may  enter.  [Exit  Page,  r. 

Orleans.  Who 

Can  this  be  ?       ^ 
Bar.  One  of  the  conspirators  ; 

Mauprat  himself,  perhaps. 

Enter  Francois,  r. 

Fran.  My  Lord 

Bar.  Ha,  traitor  ; 

In  Paris  still  1 
Fran.  The  packet — the  dispatch — 

Some  knave  play'd  spy  without  and  reft  it  fwm  me, 

Ere  I  could  draw  my  sword. 


44  HICHELIEU.  [ACT  IV. 

Bar.  Played  spy  without ! 

Did  he  wear  armor  ? 
Fran.  Ay,  from  head  to  heel. 

Orleans.   One  of  our  band.     Oh,  Heavens  ! 
Bar.  Could  it  be  Mauprat? 

Kept  guard  at  the  door — knew  naught  of  the  dispatch — 

How  he  ? — and  yet,  who  other  ? 
Fran.  Ha,  De  Mauprat ! 

The  night  was  dark — his  vizor  closed. 
Bar.  'Twas  he! 

How  could  he  guess? — 'sd^ath  !  if  he  should  betray  us. 

His  hate  to  Richelieu  dies  with  Richelieu — and 

He  was  not  great  enough  for  treason.     Hence! 

Find  Mauprat — beg,  steal,  filch,  or  force  it  back, 

Or,  as  I  live,  the  halter 

Fit  an.  By  the  morrow 

I  will  regain  it,  (aside)  and  redeem  my  honor  !  [Exit  Francois,  r. 

Orleans.  Oh,  we  are  lost 

Bar.  Not  so  !     But  cause  on  cause 

For  Mauprat's  seizure — silence — death !     Take  courage. 
Orleans.   Should  it  once  reach  the  King,  the  Cardinal's  arm 

Could  smite  us  from  the  grave. 
Bar.  Sir,  think  it  not! 

I  hold  De  Mauprat  in  my  grasp.     To-morrow, 

And  France  is  ours !  [Exeunt,  l. 


ACT  IV. 

THIRD      DAY. 

SCENE  I. — The  Gardens  of  the  Louvre.     Orleans,  Baradas,  De  Ber- 
inghen,  Courtiers,  etc.,  r.  s.  e. 

Orleans  (l.  a).  How  does  my  brother  bear  the  Cardinal's  death  ? 

Bar.     (r.  a).   With  grief,  when  thinking  of  the  toils  of  state; 
With  joy.  when  thinking  on  the  eyes  of  Julie ; — 
At  times  he  sighs,  "Who  now  shall  govern  France  ?"' 
Anon  exclaims,  "  Who  shall  baffle  Louis  ?" 

Enter  Louis  and  other  Courtiers,  r.  s.  e.     {They  uncover.) 

Orleans.  Now,  my  liege,  now,  I  can  embrace  a  brother. 
Louis.  Dear  Gaston,  yes.     I  do  believe  you  love  me; — 

Richelieu  denied  it — sever'd  us  too  long. 

A  great  man,  Gaston  !     Who  shall  govern  France  ?  (crosses  L.  and 
back  to  c.) 
Bar.    Yourself,  my  liege.     That  swart  and  potent  star 

Eclipsed  your  royal  orb.     He  served  the  country, 

But  did  he  serve,  or  seek  to  sway  the  King  ? 
Louis.  You're  right — he  was  an  able  politician — 

Dear  Count,  this  silliest  Julie, 

I  know  not  why,  she  takes  my  fancy.     Many 


ACT  IV.]  RICHELIEU.  45 

As  fair,  and  certainly  more  kind  ;  but  yet 

It  is  so. 
Bar.  Richelieu  was  most  disloyal  in  that  marriage. 

Louis,  {querulously).  He  knew  that  Julie  pleased  me ;  a  clear  proof 

He  never  loved  me  ! 
Bab.  Oh,  most  clear  ! — But  now 

No  bar  between  your  lady  and  your  will ! 

This  writ  makes  all  secure  ;  a  week  or  two 

In  the  Bastile  will  sober  Mauprat's  love, 

And  leave  him  eager  to  dissolve  a  hymen 

That  brings  him  such  a  home. 
Louis.  •  See  to  it,  Count. 

[Exit  Baradas,  r. 

I'll  summon  Julie  back.     A  word  with  you. 
[Takes  aside  First  Courtier  and  De  Beringuen,  and  exeunt,  l.  s.  e. 

Enter  Francois,  r.  u.  e. 

Fran.  All  search,  as  yet,  in  vain  for  Mauprat  !     Not 
At  home  since  yesternoon — a  soldier  told  me 
He  saw  him  pass  this  way  with  hasty  strides ; 
Should  he  meet  Baradas — they'd  rend  it  from  him — 
And  then — Oh,  sweet  fortune,  smile  upon  me — 
I  am  thy  son  !— if  thou  desert'st  me  now, 
Come,  Death,  and  snatch  me  from  disgrace.  [Exit,  l. 

Enter  De  Mauprat,  r.  u.  e. 

De  Mau.  Oh,  let  me — 

Let  me  but  meet  him  foot  to  foot — I'll  dig 
The  Judas  from  his  heart ; — albeit  the  King 
Should  o'er  him  cast  the  purple  ! 

He-enter  Francois,  l.  u.  e. 

Fran.  -  Mauprat !  hold ! — 

Where  is  the 

De  Mau.  Well !     What  would'st  thou  1 

Fran.  The  dispatch  ! 

The  packet.     Look  on  me — I  serve  the  Cardinal — 

You  know  me.     Did  you  not  keep  guard  last  night 

By  Marion's  house  1 
De  Mau.  I  did  ; — no  matter  now  ! — 

They  told  me  he  was  here  !  (crosses  to  l.  and  up  the  stage.) 
Fran.  0  joy  !  quick — quick — 

The  packet  thou  didst  wrest  from  me  1 
De  Mau.  The  packet  !-— 

What,  art  thou  he  I  deemed  the  Cardinal's  spy  1 — 

(Dupe  that  I  was)  and  overhearing  Marion 

Fran.  The  same — restore  it! — haste! 

De  Mau.  I  have  it  not; — 

Methought  it  but  reveal'd  our  scheme  to  Richelieu, 

And,  as  we  mounted,  gave  it  to 

Enter  Baradas,  r. 

Stand  back  1 


46  RiciiKi.ni'.  [.\cr  iv. 

Now,  villain!   now — I  have   thee!  (to  Francois)  Hence,  sir:  — 
Draw  ! 
Fran.  Art  mad  1 — the  King's  at  band  !  leave  Aim  to  Richelieu  ' 

Speak — the  dispatch — to  whom 

De  Mau    [dashing  him  aside,  and  rushing  to  Baradas).  Thou  triple  slan- 
derer ! 
I'll  set  my  heel  upon  thy  crest !   (a  fete  passes.) 
Fran.  Fly— flv  ! 

The  King  !— 

Enter,  l.  s.  e.,  Louis,  Orleans,  De  Berixohex,  Courtiers,  etc.  ;  Cap- 
tain and  Guards  hastily,  i.  r  v..  The  CAPTAIN  and  Gdards  range 
r.,  Courtiers  l  ,  King  l.  c,  Baradas  l.  c,  De  Mauprat  r. 

Louis.  Swords  drawn — before  our  very  palace  ! — 

Have  our  laws  died  with  Richelieu  ] 
Bail    (r.  of  the  Kino).  Pardon,  Sire, — 

My  crime  hut  self-defence,  (aside  to  Kino)  It  is  De  Mauprat. 
Louis.  Dare  he  thus  brave  us  ? 

(Baradas  goes  to  the  Captain,  and  gives  the  writ.) 

De  Mau.  Sire,  in  the  Cardinal's  name 

Bar.     Seize  him — disarm — to  the  Bastile! 

De  Mauprat  resigns  his  sword.     Enter  Richelieu  and  J oskph,  followed 
hj  Arquebusiers,  l.  v.  b. 

Bar.  The  dead 

Returned  to  life ! 
Louis  (l.  a).  What !  a  mock  death  !   this  tops 

The  Infinite  of  Insult. 
De  Mau.  (r.).  Priest  and  Hero  ! — 

For  you  are  both — protect  the  truth  ! 
Rich,   (taking  the  writ  from  the  Captain).       What's  this  ? 
De  Ber.  (,l.).  Fact  in  Philosophy.     Foxes  have  got 

Nine  iives,  as  well  as  cats  ! 
Bar.  Be  firm,  my  liege. 

Louis.  I  have  assumed  the  sceptre — I  will  wield  it! 
Jos.  (down  r  ).  The  tide  runs  counter— there'll  be  shipwreck  somewhere. 

Baradas  and  Orleans  keep  close  to  the  King,  whispering  and  prompting 
him  when  Richelieu  speaks. 

Rich.  High  treason  ! — Faviaux  !  still  that  stale  pretence  ! 

My  liege,  bad  men  (ay,  Count,  most  knavish  men  !) 

Abuse  your  royal  goodness.     For  this  soldier, 

France  hath  none  braver — and  his  youth's  folly, 

Misled  (to  Orleans) — (by  whom  pour  Highness  may  conjecture  !) 

Is  long  since  cancell'd  by  a  loyal  manhood. 

I,  Sire,  have  pardon'd  him. 
Louis.  And  we  do  give 

Your  pardon  to  the  winds.     Sir,  do  your  duty ! 
Rich.  What,  Sire  ? — you  do  not  know — Oh,  pardon  me — 

You  know  not  yet,  that  this  brave,  honest  heart 

Stood  between  mine  and  murder  !  Sire,  for  my  sake— 

For  your  old  servant's  sake — undo  this  wrong. 

See,  let  me  rend  the  sentence. 
Louis  (taking  the  paper  from  him).         At  your  peril  ! 


ACT  IV.]  EICHELIEU.  47 

This  is  too  much.     Again,  sir.  do  your  duty  !  (Maupeat  is  about 
to  expostulate.) 
Rich.  Speak  not,  but  go — I  would  not  see  young  valor 

So  humbled  as  gray  service. 
De  Mau.  Fare  you  well!  (kisses  Richelieu's  hand) 

Save  Julie,  and  console  her. 
Fran,  (aside  to  Mauprat,  as  he  is  being  led  off).  The  dispatch  ! 

Your  fate,  foes,  life,  hang  upon  a  word — to  whom  ? 
De  Mau.  To  Huguet.  [Exeunt  De  Mauprat  and  Guard,  l.  u.  e. 

Bar.  (aside  to  Francois).  Has  he  the  packet  1 
Fran.  He  will  not  reveal — 

{aside)  Work,  brain — beat  heart! — "  There' a  no  such  word  as  fail !" 

[Exit  Francois,   r.  u.  e. 
{All  the  Courtiers  have  closed  round  the  King,  shutting  Riciiklieu  out.) 
Rich,   (fiercely).  Room,  my  Lords,  room!     The  Minister  of  France 

Can  need  no  intercession  with  the  King,  {they  fall  back.) 
Louis.  What  means  this  false  report  of  death,  Lord  Cardinal  1 
Rich      Are  you  then  anger' d,  Sire,  that  I  live  still  1 

Louis.  No  ;  but  such  artifice 

Rich.  Not  mine — look  elsewhere  ! 

Louis — my  castle  swarm'd  with  the  assassins. 
Bar.  (advancing,  r.).  We  have  punished  them  already.     Huguet  now 

In  the  Bastile.    Oh,  my  Lord,  we  were  prompt 

To  avenge  you — we  were 

Rich.  We  1     Ha !  ha  !  you  hear, 

My  liege  !     What  page,  man,  in  the  last  Court  grammar 

Made  you  a  plural  1     Count,  you  have  seized  the  hireling  ; — 

Sire,  shall  I  name  the  master  ? 
Louis.  Tush  !  my  Lord, 

The  old  contrivance — ever  does  your  wit 

Invent  assassins — that  ambition  may 

Slay  rivals — (Baradas  crosses  behind  to  the  King.) 
Rich.  Rivals,  Sire,  in  what  1 

Service  to  France?     I  have  none  I     Lives  the  man 

Whom  Europe,  paled  before  your  glory,  deems 

Rival  to  Armand  Richelieu  ? 
Louis.  What,  so  haughty  ! 

Remember  he  who  made  can  unmake. 
Rich.  N^ver ! 

Never !     Your  anger  can  recall  your  trust, 

Annul  my  office,  spoil  me  of  my  lands, 

Rifle  my  coffers — but  my  name — my  deeds, 

Are  royal  in  a  land  beyond  your  sceptre ! 

Pass  sentence  on  me,  if  you  will ;  from  Kings, 

Lo  !  I  appeal  to  Time ' 
Louis  (turns  haughtily  to  the  Cardinal).  Enough  ! 

Your  Eminence  must  excuse  a  longer  audience. 

To  your  own  palace.     For  our  conference,  this 

Nor  place — nor  season. 
Rich.  Good,  my  liege,  for  Justice 

All  place  a  temple,  and  all  season,  summer  ! 

Do  you  deny  me  justice  ?     Saints  of  Heaven  ! 

He  turns  from  me !     Do  you  deny  me  justice  ? 

For  fifteen  years,  while  in  these  hands  dwelt  Empire, 

The  humblest  craftsman — the  obscurest  vassal — 

The  very  leper  shrinking  from  the  sun, 

Tho'  loathed  by  charity,  might  ask  for  justice  ! 


48  SiciiEHEtr.  [act  iv. 

Not  with  the  fawning  tone  and  crawling  mien 

Of  some  I  see  around  you — Counts  and  Princes — 

Kneeling  for  favors  ; — hut,  erect  and  loud, 

As  men  who  ask  man's  rights  I   my  liege,  my  Louis, 

Do  you  refuse  me  justice — audience  even — 

In  the  pale  presence  of  the  baffled   Murttierl 
Lonis.  Lord  Cardinal — one  by  one  you  have  sevcr'd  from  me 

The  bonds  of  human  love.     All  near  and  dear 

Mark'd  out  for  vengeance — exile  or  the  scaffold. 

You  find  me  now  amidst  my  trustiest  friends, 

My  closest  kindred — you  would  tour  them  from  me; 

They  murder  yon,  forsooth,  since  me  they  love! 

Eno'  of  plots  and  treasons  for  one  reign  ! 

Home! — Home!   and  sleep  away  these  phantoms!  (the  Kino  and 
all  the  Court  cross  to  r.) 
Rich.  Sire! 

I — patience,  Heaven  ! — sweet  Heaven  ! — from  the  foot 

Of  that  Great  Throne,  these  hands  have  raised  aloft 

On  an  Olympus,  looking  down  on  mortals 

And  worshipp'd  by  their  awe — before  the  font 

Of  that  hisjh  throne— spurn  you  the  gray-hair'd  man, 

Who  gave  you  empire — and  now  sues  for  safety  1 
Louis.  No  ;  when  we  see  your  Eminence  in  truth 

At  the/ooiof  the  throne— we'll  listen  to  you. 

[Exit  Louis,  r  ,  followed  by  Cocrtikrs 
Orleans.  Saved ! 

Bar.  For  this,  deep  thanks  to  Julie  and  to  Mauprat  ! 

[Exeunt  Baradas  and  Orleans,  r. 
Rich.  Joseph — did  you  hear  the  King  1 

Jos.    (doivn  l  ).  I  did— there's  danger  !     Had  you  been  less  haughty 

Rich.  And  suflfer'd  slaves  to  chuckle— "  See  the  Cardinal — 

How  meek  his  Eminence  is  to-day" — I  tell  thee 

This  is  a  strife  in  which  the  loftiest  look 

Is  the  most  subtle  armor 

Jos.  But 

Rice.  No  time 

For  ifs  and  buts.     I  will  accuse  these  traitors  ! 

Francois  shall  witness  that  De  Baradas 

Gave  him  the  secret  missive  for  De  Bouillon, 

And  told  him  life  and  death  were  in  the  scroll. 

I  will — I  will !  (crosses,  r  ) 
Jos.  Tush  !     Franqois  is  your  creature  ; 

So  they  will  say.  and  laush  at  you ! — your  witness 

Mtist  be  that  same  dispatch  ! 
Rich.  Away  to  Marion  ! 

Jos.     I  have  been  there — she  is  seized — removed — imprison'd — 

By  the  Count's  orders. 
Rich.  Goddess  of  bright  dreams, 

My  country — shalt  thou  lose  me  now,  when  most 

Thou  need'st  thy  worshipper  ?     My  native  land  ! 

Let  me  but  ward  this  dagger  from  thy  heart, 

And  die — but  on  thy  bosom  ! 

Enter  Julie,  l.  s.  e. 

Julie.  Heaven  !  I  thank  thee ! 

It  cannot  be,  or  this  all-powerful  man 


ACT  IV.]  BIOHELIEU.  49 

Would  not  stand  idly  thus. 
Rich.  What  dost  thou  here  1 

Home  ! 
Julie.  Home  ! — is  Adricn  there  ?— you're  dumb— yet  strive 

For  wqj'ds;  I  see  them  trembling  on  your  lip, 

But  choked  by  pity.     It  teas  truth — all  truth  ! 

Seized — the  Bastile— and  in  your  presence,  too  ! 

Cardinal,  where  is  Adrien  1     Think — he  saved 

Your  life — your  name  is  infamy,  if  wrong 

Should  come  to  his  ! 
Rich,  Be  sooth'd,  child. 

Julie.  Child  no  more. 

I  love,  and  I  am  woman  ! 

Where  is  Adrien  1 

Let  thine  eyes  meet  mine  ; 

Answer  me  but  one  word — I  am  a  wife — 

I  ask  thee  for  my  home — my  fate — my  all ! 

Where  is  my  husband  ? 
Rich.  You  are  Richelieu's  ward, 

A  soldier's  bride;  they  who  insist  on  truth 

Must  out-face  fear — you  ask  me  for  your  husband  1 

There — where  the  clouds  of  heaven  look  darkest,  o'er 

The  domes  of  the  Bastile  ! 
Julie.  0,  mercy,  mercy  ! 

Save  him,  restore  him,  father  !     Art  thou  not 

The  Cardinal  King  ? — the  Lord  of  life  and  deatli — 

Art  thou  not  Richelieu  V 
Rich.  Yesterday  I  was  ! 

To-day,  a  very  weak  old  man  !     To-morrow, 

I  know  not  what,  (crosses,  l.) 
Julie  (to  Joseph).  Do  you  conceive  his  meaning  ! 

Alas  I  cannot. 
Jos.  (r).  The  Kins  is  chafed 

Against  bis  servant.     Lady,  while  we  speak, 

The  lackey  of  the  ante-room  is  not 

More  powerless  than  the  Minister  of  France. 

Enter  Clermont,  r. 

Cler.  Madame  de  Mauprat ! 

Pardon,  your  Eminence — even  now  I  seek 

This  lady's  home — commanded  by  the  King 

To  pray  her  presence. 
Julie  {dinging  to  Richelieu).   Think  of  my  dead  father — 

And  take  me  to  your  breast. 
Rich.  To  those  who  sent  you — 

And  say  you  found  the  virtue  they  would  slay 

Here — couch'd  upon  this  heart,  as  at  an  altar. 

And  shelter'd  by  the  wings  of  sacred   Rome  ! 

Begone  ! 
Cler.  My  Lord,  I  am  your  friend  and  servant — 

Misjudge  me  not ;  but  never  yet  was  Louis 

So  roused  against  you — shall  I  take  this  answer  1 

It  were  to  be  your  foe. 
Rich.  All  time  my  foe. 

If  T,  a  Priest,  could  cast  this  holy  sorrow 

Forth  from  her  last  asylum  ! 


50  RICHELIEU.  [aCI   IV. 

CiiER.  He  is  lost!        [Exit  Clermont,  u. 

Rich.  God  help  thee,  child! — she  hears  not  !     Look  upon  her! 
The  storm,  that  rends  the  oak,  uproots  the  flower. 
II   i   i  ither  loved  me  so  !  and  in  thai 
When  friends  are  brothers !     She  has  been  to  me 
S  'other,  nurse,  plaything,  daughter.      Are  these  tears  1 
Oh!  shame,  shame! — dotage!   {places  her  in  the  anna  of  Joseph.) 

Jos.  Tears  are  not  for  eyes  • 

That  rather  need  the  lightning  !   which  can  pierce 
Through  barred  gates  and  triple  walls,  to  smite 
Crime,  where  it  cowers  in  secret!     The  dispatch! 
Set  every  spy  Id  work — the  morrow's  sun 
Must  see  that  written  treason  in  your  hands, 
Or  rise  upon  your  ruin. 

Rich.  Ay — and  close 

Upon  my  corpse— I  am  nut  made  to  live — 

Friends,  glory,  France,  all  reft  from  me — my  star 

Like  some  vain  holiday  mimicry  of  lire, 

Piercing  imperial  heaven,  and  falling  down 

Rayless  and  blacken'd,  to  the  dust — a  thing 

For  all  men's  feet  to  trample  I     Yea  ' — to-morrow 

Triumph  or  death  !     Look  up;  child  !     Lead  us.  Joseph  ! 

.Jv  they  are  going  up  c,  enter  Babadas  and  I'i:  Bebixohen,  r. 

Bar.  (r.  a).  My  Lord,  the  King  cannoi  believe  your  Eminence 

Sj  far  forgets  your  duty,  and  his  greatne 

As  to  resist  his  mandate  '     Pray  you,  madam, 

Obey  the  King — no  cause  for  fear  ! 
Julie  (l.  ).  My  lather  ! 

R  i    i.   (c).  She  shall  not  stir ! 
Bar.  You  are  not  of  her  kindred — 

An  orphan 

Rich.  And  her  country  is  her  mother. 

Bar.  The  country  is  the  King. 

Rich.  Ay,  is  it  so  1 

Then  wakes  the  power  which  in  the  a_e  of  iron 

Bursts  forth  to  curb  the  great,  and  raise-  the  low. 

Mark,  where  she  stands — around  her  form  I  draw 

The  awful  circle  of  our  solemn  church  ! 

Set  but  a  foot  within  that  holy  ground 

And  on  thy  head — yea,  though  it  wore  a  crown — 

I  launch  the  curse  of  Rome  ! 
Bar.  I  dare  not  brave  you. 

I  do  but  speak  the  orders  of  my  King, 

The  church,  your  rank,  power,  very  word,  my  Lord, 

Suffice  you  for  resistance — blame  yourself, 

If  it  should  cost  your  power. 
Rich.  That  my  stake.     Ah  ! 

Dark  gamester  !  what  is  thine  ?     Look  to  it  well  — 

Lose  not  a  trick — By  this  same  hour  to-morrow 

Thou  shalt  have  France,  or  I  thy  head  ! 
Bar.  (aside  to  De  Beringhex).  He  cannot 

Hive  the  dispatch  \ 
Jos.  (aside,  on  Richelieu's  r.).  Patience  is  your  game; 

Reflect,  you  have  not  the  dispatch  ! 
Rich.  0,  monk ! 


ACT  V.]  SICHELIEU.  51 

Leave  patience  to  the  saints — for  I  am  human ! 

(to  Jdlie)  Did  not  thy  father  die  for  France,  poor  orphan  1 

And  now  they  say  thou  hast  no  father  !      Fie  ! 

Art  thou  not  pure  and  goodl — if  so,  thou  art 

A  part  of  that — the  Beautiful,  the  sacred — 

Which,  in  all  climes,  men  that  have  hearts  adore, 

By  the  great  title  of  their  mother  country  ! 
Bah.  (aside).  He  wanders  ! 
Uicu.  So  cling  close  unto  my  breast, 

Here  where  thou  droop'st  lies  France  !    I  am  very  feeble — 

Of  little  use  it  seems  to  either  now. 

Well,  well — we  will  go  home,    (they  go  up  the  stage.) 
Bar.  In  sooth,  my  Lord, 

You  do  need  rest — the  burthens  of  the  State 

O'ertask  your  health  ! 
Rich,  (to  Joseph,  pauses).         I'm  patient,  see  ! 
Bar.   (aside).  His  mind 

And  life  are  breaking  fast. 
Rich,  (overhearing  him).  Irreverent  ribald  ! 

If  so,  beware  the  falling  ruins  !     Hark  ! 

I  tell  thee,  scorner  of  these  whitening  hairs, 

When  this  snow  melteth  there  shall  come  a  flood  ! 

Avaunt !  my  name  is  Richelieu — 1  defy  thee! 

Walk  blindfold  on  ;  behind  thee  stalks  the  headsman. 

Ha  !  ha  ! — how  pale  he  is.     Heaven  save  my  country  !   (falls  back 

in  Joseph  s  arms.     Julie  kneels  at  his  side,  Baradas  and  De  Ber- 
inghen  stand  R. 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  V. 

fourth  day. 

SCENE  I. — The  Bastile — a  corridor  ;  in  the  background  the  door  of  one  of 
the  condemned  cells. 

Enter  Joseph,  and  Jailer,  with  a  lamp,  r.  d.  f. 

Jailfr.  Stay,  father,  I  will  call  the  governor.  [Exit  Jaileu,  l. 

Jos.      He  has  it  then — this  Huguet — so  we  learn 

From  Francois — Humph  !     Now  if  I  can  but  gain 
One  moment's  access,  all  is  ours !     The  Cardinal 
Trembles  'tween  life  and  death.     His  life  is  power  ; 
Smite  one — slay  both  !     No  iEsculapian  drugs, 
By  learned  quacks  baptized  with  Latin  jargon, 
E'er  bore  the  healing  which  that  scrap  of  parchment 
Will  medicine  to  ambition's  flagging  heart. 
France  shall  be  saved — and  Joseph  be  a  bishop. 

Enter  Governor  and  Jailer,  l. 

Gov.    Father,  you  wish  to  see  the  prisoners  Huguet 

And  the  young  knight  De  Mauprat  1 
Jos.  So  my  office, 

And  the  Lord  Cardinal's  order,  warrant,  son  ! 


52  RICHELIEU.  [ACT  "V 

Gov.    Father,  it  cannot  be ;  Count  Baradas 

Has  summon'd  to  the  Louvre  Sieur  de  Mauprat. 
Jos.      Well,  well  !     But  Huguet 

( lo\  .  Dies  ;it  noon. 

Jos.  At  noon! 

No  moment  to  delay  the  pious  rites, 

Which  fit  the  soul  lor  death.     Quick— quick — admit  me  ! 
Gov.    You  cannot  enter,  monk  1     Such  are  my  orders. 
Jos.     Orders,  vain  man — the  Cardinal  still  is  Minister. 

His  orders  crush  all  others. 
Gov.     [lifting  his  hid).  Save  his  King's  ! 

See,  monk,  the  royal  sign  and  seal  atti.vd 

To  the  Count's  mandate.     None  may  have  access 

To  either  prisoner,  Huguet  or  De  Mauprat, 

Not  even  a  priest,  without  the  special  passport 

Of  Count  de  Baradas.     I'll  hear  no  more  ! 
Jos       (aside)  Just  Heaven!  and  are  we  baffled  thus?     Despair  ! 

{aloud)  Think  on  the  Cardinal's  power—  bewaie  his  anger. 
Gov.    I'll  not  be  menaced,  priest.     Besides  the  Cardinal 

Is  dying  and  disgraced — all  Paris  knows  it. 

You  hear  the  prisoner's  knell  !  {bell  tolls,  l.  ) 
Jos.  1  do  beseech  jou — 

The  Cardinal  is  not  dying.     Bui  one  moment, 

And  hist — five  thousand  pistoles  ! 
(Jo v.  How  !  a  briue — 

And  to  a  soldier,  gray  with  years  of  honor  ! 

Begone  1 
Jos.  Ten  thousand — twenty  ! 

Gov.  Jailer— put 

This  monk  without  our  walls. 
Jos.  By  those  gray  hairs — 

Yea,  by  this  badge,  {touching  the  cross  of  St.  Louis,  icom  by  the 
Governor) 

The  guerdon  of  your  valor — 

By  all  your  toils — hard  days  and  sleepless  nights — 

Borne  in  your  country's  service,  noble  son- — 

Let  me  but  see  the  prisoner ! 
Gov.  No ! 

Jos.  He  hath 

Secrets  of  State — papers  in  which 

Gov.    (interrupting).  I  know — 

Such  was  his  message  to  Count  Baradas  ; 

Doubtless  the  Count  will  see  to  it. 
Jos.    (aside).  The  Count! 

Then  not  a  hope  !  (aloud)  You  shall 

Gov.  Betray  my  trust ! 

Never — not  one  word  more.     You  heard  me,  jailer  ! 
Jos.     What  can  be  done  1     Distraclion  ! 

Dare  you  refuse  the  Church  her  holiest  rights  1 
Gov.    I  refuse  nothing — I  obey  my  orders. 
Jos.     And  sell  your  country  to  her  parricides ! 

Oh,  tremble  yet — Richelieu 

Gov.  Begone ! 

Jos  Undone!  [Exit  Joseph,  r.  d.  f. 

Gov.    A  most  audacious  shaveling — interdicted 

Above  all  others  by  the  Count. 
Jailer.  Oh,  by  the  way,  that  troublesome  young  fellow, 


ACT  V.J  KICm.LIEU.  53 

Who  calls  himself  the  prisoner  Huguet's  son, 
•  Is  here  again — implores,  weeps,  raves  to  see  him. 
Gov.  Poor  youth,  I  pity  him ! 

Enter  De  Beringiien,  followed  by  Francois,  e.  d.  f. 

De  Ber.  (to  Francois!.  Now,  prithee,  friend, 

Let  go  my  cloak  ;  you  really  discompose  me. 
Frax.  (r.).    No  !  they  will  drive  me  hence  ;  my  father  !     Oh  ! 

Let  me  but  see  him  once — but  once — one  moment  ! 
De  Ber.  {to  Governor).  Your  servant,  Mesgire;  this  poor  rascal,  Huguet, 

lias  sent  to  see  the  Count  de  Baradas, 

Upon  State  secrets,  that  afflict  his  conscience. 

The  Count  ctfn't  leave  his  Majesty  an  instant ; 

I  am  his  proxy. 
Gov.    (l.  c).  The  Count's  word  is  law.  (beckons  Jailer  to  un- 

lock L.  D.  F. 

Again,  young  scapegrace !     How  com'st  thou  admitted  1 
De  Ber.  (r.  a).   Oh  !  a  most  filial  fellow  ;   Huguet's  son  ! 

I  found  him  whimpering  in  the  court  below. 

I  pray  his  leave  to  say  good  bye  to  father, 

Before  that  very  long,  unpleasant  journey, 

Father's  about  to  take. 
Gov.  The  Count's 

Commands  are  strict.     No  one  must  visit  Huguet 

Without  bis  passport. 
De  Ber.  Here  it  is  !  [shows  a  paper)  Pshaw  !  nonsense  ! 

I'll  be  your  surety.     See,  my  Cerberus, 

He  is  no  Hercules  ! 
Gov.  Well,  you're  responsible. 

Stand  tbere,  friend.     If,  when  you  come  out,  my  Lord, 

The  youth  slip  in,  'tis  your  fault. 
De  Ber.  So  it  is  ! 

[Exit,  l.  d.  ¥.,folloived  by  the  Jailer. 
Gov.    Be  calm,  my  lad.     Don"t  fret  so.     I  had  once 

A  father,  too  !     I'll  not  be  hard  upon  you, 

And  so  stand  close.     I  must  not  see  you  enter. 

You  understand  ? 

Re-enter  Jailer,  l.  d.  f. 

Come,  we'll  go  our  rounds  ; 
I'll  give  you  just  one  quarter  of  an  hour  ; 
And  if  my  lord  leave  first,  make  my  excuse. 
Yet  slay,  the  gallery's  long  and  dark  ;  no  sentry 
Until  we  reach  the  gate  below.     He'd  best 
Wait  till  I  come.     If  he  should  lose  the  way, 
We  may  not  be  in  call. 
Fran.  I'll  tell  him,  sir. 

[Exeunt  Governor  and  Jailer,  r. 
He's  a  wise  son  that  knoweth  his  own  father. 
I've  forged  a  precious  one !     So  far,  so  well  ! 
Alas  !  what  then  ]  this  wretch  hath  sent  to  Baradas — 
Will  sell  the  scroll  to  ransom  life.     Oh,  Heaven  ! 
On  what  a  thread  hangs  hope!  (listens  at  door,  l.) 

Loud  words — a  cry  !  (looks  through 
the  key- hole.) 


54  BIC1IELIKU.  [  ACT  T. 

They  struggle  !     Ho — the  packet!  (tries  to  open  the  door.) 

Lost  !     He  has  it — 
The  Courtier  has  it — Huguet,  spite  his  chains, 
Grapples! — well  done  !     Now — now!   (draws  back.) 

The  gallery's  long — 
And  this  is  left  us  !  [drawing  dagger,  and  standing  behind  r.  door.) 

Re-enter  De  Beringiikn.  with  the  packet. 

Victory  !  (passes  off  at  r.  d.  f.)  Yield  it,  robber!  (following  him) 
Yield  it — or  die!   (ashort  struggle,  without.) 
De  Ber.  (without.)  Oil!  ho  !— there*! 

SCENE  II. — The  King's  closet  at  the  Louvre.     A  suite  of  rooms  in  perspec- 
tive at  one  side. 

Enter  Baradas  and  Orleans,  r.  c. 

Bar.  (r.).  All  smiles!  the  Cardinal's  swoon  of  yesterday 

Heralds  his  death  to-day. 

And  yet,  should  this  accuva'd  Do  Mauprat 

Have  given  our  packet  to  another — 'Sdeath  ! 

I  dare  not  think  of  it ! 
Orleans  (l.).  You've  sent  to  search  him. 

Bar.   Sent,  sir,  to  search  1 — that  hireling  hands  may  find 

Upon  him,  naked,  with  its  broken  seal, 

That  scroll,  whose  every  word  is  death  !     No — no — 

These  bands  alone  must  clutch  that  awful  secret. 

I  dare  not  leave  the  palace,  ni<>ht  or  day, 

While  Richelieu  lives — his  minions — creatures — spies — 

Not  one  must  reach  the  King  ! 
Orleans.  What  hast  thou  done? 

Bar.    Summon'd  De  Mauprat  hither. 
Orleans.  Could  this  Huguet, 

Who  pray'd  thy  presence  with  so  fierce  a  fervor, 

Have  thieved  the  scroll  1 
Bar.  Huguet  was  housed  with  us, 

The  very  moment  we  dismiss'd  the  courier. 

It  cannot  be  !  a  stale  trick  for  reprieve. 

But,  to  make  sure,  I've  sent  our  trustiest  friend 

To  see  and  sift  him.     Hist — here  comes  the  King. 

How  fare  you,  Sire  1 

Enter  Louis,  followed  by  Pages,  and  Court,  l.  c. 

Louis.  In  the  same  mind.     I  have 

Decided  !     Yes,  he  would  forbid  your  presence, 

My  brother — yours,  my  friend — then  Julie,  too  ! 

Thwarts— braves — defies — {suddenly  turning  to  Baradas   We  make 
you  Minister. 

Gaston,  for  you — the  baton  of  our  armies, 

You  love  me,  do  you  not! 
Orleans.  Oh,  love  you,  Sire? 

(aside)  Never  so  much  as  now.  (retires,  l.  u.  e.,  Courtiers  sur- 
round him.) 
Bar.  May  I  deserve 

Your  trust  (aside)  until  you  sign  your  abdication. 


ACT  T.]  EICHELIEU.  5£ 

(aloud)  My  liege,  but  one  way  left  to  daunt  de  Mauprat, 

And  Julie  to  divorce.     We  must  prepare 

The  death-warrant;  what,  tho'  sign'd  and  seal'd  1  we  can 

Withhold  the  enforcement. 
Louis.  Ah,  you  may  prepare  it  ; 

We  need  not  urge  it  to  effect. 
Bar.  Exactly  ! 

No  haste,  my  liege,  (looking  at  his  watch,  and,  aside)  He  may  live 
one  hour  longer. 

Enter  Page,  l.  u.  e. 

Page.  The  Lady  Julie,  Sire,  implores  an  audience. 
Louis.  Aha!  repentant  of  her  folly !     Well, 

Admit  her.  [Exit,  Page,  l.  u.  e. 

Bar.  Sire,  she  comes  for  Mauprat1  s  pardon, 

And  the  conditions 

Louis.  You  are  Minister— 

We  leave  to  you  our  answer. 

As  Julie  enters  l.  u.  e.,  the  Captain  of  the  Archers  enters  r.  door,  and 
whispers  Baradas. 

Capt.  The  Chevalier 

De  Mauprat  waits  below. 
Bar.  {aside).  Now  the  dispatch. 

[Exit  with  Officer,  n. 
Julie  (l.  c).  My  liege,  you  sent  for  me.     I  come  where  grief 

Should  come  when  guiltless,  while  the  name  of  King 

Is  holy  on  the  earth  !     Here,  at  the  feet 

Of  Power,  I  kneel  for  mercy. 
Louis  (r.  c).  Mercy,  Julie, 

1  s  an  affair  of  state.     The  Cardinal  should 

In  this  be  your  interpreter. 
Julie.  Alas ! 

I  know  not  if  that  mighty  spirit  now 

Stoop  to  the  things  of  earth.     Nay,  while  I  speak, 

Perchance  he  hears  the  orphan  by  the  throne 

Where  Kings  themselves  need  pardon  !     0,  my  liege, 

Be  father  to  the  fatherless  ;  in  you 

Dwells  my  last  hope. 

Enter  Baradas,  r. 

Bar    (aside).  He  has  not  the  dispatch  ; 

Smil'd,  while  we  search'd,  and  braves  me — Oh  ! 
Louis  {gently).  What  would'st  thou  1 

Julie.  A  single  life.     You  reign  o'er  millions.     What 

Is  one  man's  life  to  you'? — and  yet  to  me 

'Tis  France — 'tis  earth — 'tis  everything — a  life — 

A  human  life — my  husband's  ! 
Louis  (aside).  Speak  to  her, 

I  am  not  marble     Give  her  hope — or — (retires;  speaks  to  Orleans 
and  Courtiers.) 
Bar.  Madam, 

Vex  not  your  King,  whose  heart,  too  soft  for  justice, 

Leaves  to  his  ministers  the  solemn  charge. 


5G  EICHKLIKU.  LACT  v- 

Julie.  You  wire  his  friend. 

Bar.  I  was  before  I  loved  tliee. 

Julie.   Loved  me ! 

Bar.  Hush,  Julie  ;  could'st  Ihou  misinterpret 

My  acts,  thoughts,  motives,  nay,  my  very  words, 

Here — in  this  palace  1 
Julie.  Now  I  know  I'm  mad  ; 

Even  that  memory  fail'd  me. 
Bar.  I  am  young, 

Well-horn  and  brave  as  Mauprat — tor  thy  sake 

I  peril  what  he  has  not — fortune — power  ; 

All  to  great  souls  most  dazzling.     I  alone 

Can  save  thee  from  yon  tyrant,  now  my  puppet! 

Be  mine  ;  annul  the  mockery  of  this  marriage, 

And  on  the  day  I  clasp  thee  to  my  breast 

De  Mauprat  shall  be  free. 
Julie.  Thou  durst  not  speak 

Thus  in  his  ear.  (pointing  to  Louis)  Thou  double  traitor!  tremble. 

I  will  unmask  thee. 
Bar.  I  will  say  thou  ravest. 

And  see  this  scroll  !  its  letters  shall  be  blood  ! 

Go  to  the  King,  count  with  me  word  for  word  ; 

And  while  you  pray  the  life — I  write  the  sentence! 
Julie.  Stay,  stay  !   (rushing  t>  the  King)  You  have  a  kind  and  princely 
heart, 

Tho'  sometimes  it  is  silent  ;  you  were  born 

To  power — it  has  not  flush'd  you  into  madness, 

As  it  doth  meaner  men.     Banish  my  husband — 

Dissolve  our  marriage — cast  me  to  that  grave 

Of  human  ties,  where  hearts  congeal  to  ice, 

In  the  dark  convent's  everlasting  winter — 

(Surely  eno'  for  justice — hate — revenge) — 

But  spare  this  life,  thus  lonely,  scathed,  and  bloomless  ; 

And  when  thou  stand'st  for  judgment  on  thine  own, 

The  deed  shall  shine  beside  thee  as  an  angel. 
Louis  {much  affected).  Go,  go,  to  Baradas  ;  annul  thy  marriage, 

And 

Julie  (anxiously,  and  ivatching  his  countenance).  Be  his  bride  ! 
Louis.  Yes! 

Julie.  Oh  thou  sea  of  shame, 

And  not  one  star  ! 

The  King  goes  up  the  stage,  and  passes  through  the  suite  of  rooms  at  the  side, 
in  evident  emotion.     Exeunt  King  and  Court,  r.  u.  e. 

Bar.  Well,  thy  election,  Julie  ; 

This  hand — his  grave  ? 

Julie.  His  grave  !    and  I 

Bar.  Can  save  him. 

Swear  to  be  mine. 
Julie.  That  were  a  bitterer  death  ! 

A  vaunt,  thou  tempter.     I  did  ask  his  life 

A  boon,  and  not  the  barter  of  dishonor. 

The  heart  can  break,  and  scorn  you ;  wreck  your  malice  ; 

Adrien  and  I  will  leave  you  this  sad  earth, 

And  pass  together  hand  in  hand  to  Heaven  ! 
Bar.    You  have  decided. 


ACT  V  ]  RICHELIEU.  57 

Beckons  in  Captain,  who  enters  r.;   Baradas  whispers  to  him  and  he  (joes 
off  quickly,  e. 

Listen  to  me,  Lady  ; 
I  am  no  base  intriguer.     I  adored  thee 
From  the  first  glance  of  those  inspiring  eyes  ; 
With  thee  entwined  ambition,  hope,  the  future. 
I  will  not  lose  thee!     I  can  place  thee  nearest — 
Ay,  to  the  throne — nay,  on  the  throne,  perchance  ; 
My  star  is  at  its  zenith.     Look  upon  me  ; 
Hast  thou  decided  1 
Julie.  No,  no  ;  you  can  see 

How  weak  lam;  be  human,  sir — one  moment. 

Baradas  stamps  his  foot,  De  Mauprat  is  brought  on  guarded,  r.  ;  Guards 

range  r. 

Bar.  Behold  thy  husband  !     Shall  he  pass  to  death, 

And  know  thou  could'st  have  saved  him  1 
Julie,  (l.).  Adrien,  speak, 

But  say  you  wish  to  live  !  if  not,  your  wife, 

Your  slave — do  with  me  as  you  will,   (crosses  to  him.) 
De  Mau.  (r.  '.  Oh,  think,  my  Julie, 

Life,  at  the  best,  is  short — but  love  immortal ! 

Bar.  (talcing  Julie's  hand).   Ah,  loveliest 

Julie.  Go,  that  touch  has  made  me  iron. 

We  have  decided   {embracing  Mauprat) — death  ! 
Bar.   (to  De  Mauprat).  Now  say  to  whom 

Thou  gavest  the  packet,  and  thou  yet  shall  live. 
De  Mau.  I'll  tell  thee  nothing. 
Bar  Hark — the  rack  ! 

De  Mau.  .  Thy  penance 

For  ever,  wretch  !     What  rack  is  like  the  conscience  1 
Bar.  (giving  the  tvrit  to  the  Officer,  who  is  r. c).  Hence,  to  the  heads- 
man! (the  doors  are  thrown  open,  c.      The  Huissier  announces 
"  His  Eminence  the  Cardinal  Duke  de  Richelieu.") 

Enter  Richelieu,  r.  c,  attended  by  Pages,  etc.,  pale,  feeble,  and  leaning  on 
Joseph,  followed  by  three  Secretaries  or  State,  attended  by  Sub- 
Secretaries  with  papers,  etc. 

Julie  (rushing  to  Richelieu).  You  live — you  live — and    Adrien   shall 

not  die  ! 
Rich.  Not  if  an  old  man's  prayers,  himself  near  death, 

Can  aught  avail  thee,  daughter  !     Count,  you  now 

Hold  what  I  held  onfearth — one  boon,  my  Lord, 

This  soldier's  life. 
Bar.  The  stake — my  head — you  said  it. 

I  cannot  lose  one  trick.     Remove  your  prisoner. 
Julie  (r.  of  Richelieu).  No  !  no ! 

Enter  Louis  from  r.  u.  e.,  attended  by  Court. 

Rich,  {to  Officer^.  Stay,  sir,  one  moment.     My  good  liege, 

Your  worn  out  servant,  willing,  Sire,  to  spare  you 
Some  pain  of  conscience,  would  forestall  your  wishes. 


5S  EICHEL1FU.  [AC!  V. 

I  do  resign  my  office. 
Omnes.  You  ! 

Julie.  All's  over  ! 

Rich.   My  end  draws  near.     These  sad  ones,  Sire,  I  love  them. 

I  do  not  ask  liis  life  ;  but  suffer  justice 

To  halt,  until  1  can  dismiss  bis  soul, 

Charged  with  an  old  man's  blessing. 
Louis  (k.  c.  .  Surely  ! 

(De  Mai'pkat  goes  behind,  to  the  l.  of  Richelieu., 

Bak.  (on  the  a.  of  the  King).  Sire 

Louis.   Silence— small  favor  to  a  dying  servant. 
Rich.  You  would  consign  your  armies  to  the  baton 

0:  your  most  honored  brother.     Sire,  so  be  it ! 

Your  Minister,  the  Count  de  Baradas  ; 

A  most  sagacious  choice !     Your  Secretaries 

Of  State  attend  me,  Sire,  to  render  up 

The  ledgers  of  a  realm.     I  do  beseech  you, 

Suffer  these  noble  gentlemen  to  learn 

The  nature  of  the  glorious  task  that  waits  them, 

Here,  in  thy  presence. 
Louis.  You  say  well,  my  Lord. 

Approach,  sirs,  (to  Secretaries,  as  he  seats  himself.     Pages  place 
a  chair  for  the  King,  it.  C. ) 
Rich.  I — I — faint — air — air!    (Joseph   and  a  Gentle- 

man ass'st  him  to  a  chair,  placed  by  Pages,  l.  c.) 

I  thank  you — 

Draw  near,  my  children. 
Bar.    (aside).  He's  too  weak  to  question, 

Nay,  scarce  to  speak  ;  all's  safe. 

Julie  kneeling  beside  the  Cardinal  ;  the  Officer  of  the  Guard  behind 
Mauprat.  Joseph  near  Richelieu,  watching  the  King.  Louis 
seated  R.  c.  Baradas  at  the  back  of  the  King's  chair,  anxious  and 
disturbed.  Orleans  at  a  greater  distance,  careless  and  triumphant.  As 
each  Secretary  advances  in  his  turn,  he  takes  the  portfolios  from  the 
Sub-Secretaries. 

First  Sec.  [kneeling).  The  affairs  of  Portugal. 

Most  urgent,  Sire.  ( gives  a  paper)  One  short  month  since  the  Duke 

Braganza  was  a  rebel. 
Louis.  And  is  still ! 

First  Sec.  No,  Sire,  he  has  succeeded!    He  is  now 

Crown'd  King  of  Portugal — craves  instant  succor 

Against  the  arms  of  Spain. 
Louis.  We  will  not  grant  it 

Against  his  lawful  King.     Eh,  Count  ? 
Bar.  No,  Sire. 

First  Sec.  But  Spain's  your  deadliest  foe  ;  whatever 

Can  weaken  Spain  must  strengthen  France.     The  Cardinal 

Would  send  the  succors — (solemnly) — balance,  Sire,  of  Europe  ! 
(gives  another  paper .) 
Louis.  The  Cardinal — balance  !     We'll  consider — Eh,  Count  ? 
Bar.  Yes,  Sire — fall  back. 

First  Sec.  (rises).  But 

Bar.  Oh!  fallback  sir.  (Secketaky  botes 

and  retires.) 
Jos.  Humph ! 


ACT  V.]  RICHELIEU.  59 

Second  Sec.  (advances  and  kneels).  The  affairs  of  England,  Sire,   most 
urgent,   (gives  paper)   Charles 
The  First  has  lost  a  battle  that  decides 
One  half  his  realm — craves  moneys,  Sire,  and  succor, 

Louis.  He  shall  have  both.     Eh,  Baradas  1 

Bar.  Yes,  Sire. 

(aside)  Oh  that  dispatch  ! — my  veins  are  fire ! 

Rich.    (  feebly,  but  ivith  great  distinctness).  My  liege — 
Forgive  me — Charles's  cause  is  lost.     A  man, 
Named  Cromwell,  risen — a  great  man — your  succor 
Would  fail — your  loans  he  squander'd  !     Pause  — reflect 

Louis.  Reflect.     Eh,  Baradas  1 

Bar.  Reflect,  Sire. 

Jos.  Humph ! 

Louia  (aside).  I  half  repent!     No  successor  to  Richelieu! 
Round  me  thrones  totter — dynasties  dissolve — 
The  soil  he  guards  alone  escapes  the  earthquake ! 

Jos.     (to  Richelieu).  Our  star  not  yet  eclipsed — you  mark  the  King  ? 
Oh  !  had  we  the  dispatch  ! 

Enter  a  Page,  l.  u.  e. 

Rich.  Ah  !— Joseph  !— Child- 

Would  I  could  help  thee  ! 

[Page  whispers  Joseph,  who  exits  hastily,  l.  u.  e. 
Bar.  (to  Secretary).  Sir,  fall  back! 

Second  Sec.  (rises).  But 

Bar.  Pshaw,  sir  ! 

[Second  Secretary  bows  and  retires,  l.  c. 
Third  Sec.   (mysteriously,  kneels).  The  secret  correspondence,  Sire,  most 
urgent — 
Accounts  of  spies — deserters — heretics — 

Assassins — poisoners — schemes  against  yourself!  (gives  paper. 
Secretary  rises.) 
Louis.  Myself! — most  urgent!  (the  King  seizes  thai  paper  and  drops  the 
others.) 

Re-enter  Joseph  ivith  Francois,  whose  pourpoint  is  streaked  with  blood. 
FRANgois  passes  behind  the  Cardinal's  Attendants,  and,  sheltered 
by  them  from  the  sight  of  Baradas,  etc.,  falls  at  Richelieu's  feet. 

Fran.  (l.  of  Richelieu).  My  Lord! 

I  have  not  fail'd.   (gives  the  packet.) 
Rich.  Hush  !  (looking  at  the  contents.) 

Third  Sec.  (to  King).  Sire,  the  Spaniards 

Have  reinforced  their  army  on  the  frontiers. 

The  Due  de  Bouillon 

Rich.  Hold  !     In  this  department — 

A  paper — here,  Sire — read  yourself — then  take 

The  Count's  advice  ou't.  (the  King  takes  the  paper  and  goes  l.) 

Enter  De  Beringhen,  l.  u.  e.,  hastily,  and  draivs  aside  Baradas,  and 

whispers. 

Bar.  (bursting  from  De  Beringhen).   What!  and  reft  it  from  thee ! 

Ha  ! — hold  !   (going  towards  the  King). 
Jos.  (l.  a).  Fall  back,  son,  it  is  your  turn  now  ! 


60  EICHELIEC.  [ACT  V. 

Louis  (reading,  pacing  the  stage  from  l.  to  it.).  To  Bouillon — ami  signd'd 
Orleans — 

Baradas,  too  ! — league  with  our  foes  of  Spain — 

Lead  our  Italian  armies — wliat !  to  Paris  ! 

Capture  the  King — my  health  requires  repose — 

Make  me  subscribe  my  proper  abdication — 

Orleans,  my  brother,  Recent !     Saints  of  Heaven  ! 

These  are  the  men  I  loved  !  (Richelieu  falls  back.) 
Jos.  See  to  the  Cardinal  ! 

Bau.  (r  a).  He's  dying— and  I  shall  yet  dupe  the  King! 
Locis  (rushing  to  Richelieu).  Richelieu! — Lord  Cardinal  ! — 'tis  /resign. 

Reign  thou ! 
Jos.    [behind  the  chair).  Alas!  too  late — he  faints' 
Louis  (a.  of  Richelieu).  Reign,  Richelieu  ! 

Rich   (feebly).  With  absolute  power  • 

Louis.  Most  absolute  !     Oh  !  live  ! 

If  not  for  me — for  France  ! 
Rich  France  ! 

Louis  Oh  !  this  treason  ! 

The  army — Orleans — Bouillon — Heavens  ! — the  Spaniard  ! 

Where  will  they  be  next  week  1 
Rich,  (starting  up,  seizing  the  paper  and  throwing  it  on  the  ground).  There, 
— at  my  feet!  (to  First  and  Second  Secretary) 

Ere  the  clock  strike — the  Envoys  have  their  answer  ! 

[Exit  Secretaries,  l.  d.  e. 

(to  Thif.d  Secretary,  with  a  ring)  This  to  De  Chavigny — he  knows 
the  rest — 

No  need  of  parchment  here — he  must  not  halt 

For  sleep — for  food — In  my  name — Mine  ! — he  will 

Arrest  the  Due  de  Bouillon  at  the  head 

Of  his  army  !  (Exit  Third  Secretary,  l.  u.  e.)  Ho,  there,  Count 
tie  Baradas, 

Thou  hast  lost  the  stake!     Away  with  him  !   (as  the  Guards  open, 
Baradas  passes  through  the  line.     Exeunt,!.)  Ha!   ha!  — 
(snatching  De  Maupkat's  death-warrant  from  the  Officer  as  he  passes) 

See  here,  De  Mauprat's  death-writ,  Julie  ! 

Parchment  for  battledores  !     Embrace  your  husband — 

At  last  the  old  man  blesses  you  ! 
Julie  (l.  c).  0,  joy  ! 

You  are  saved  ;  you  live — I  hold  you  in  these  arms. 

De  Mau.  Never  to  part 

Julie.  No — never,  Adi  ien — never  ! 

Louis,  (peevishly,  r.  c).  One  moment  makes  a  startling  cure,  Lord  Car- 
dinal. 
Rich.  Ay,  Sire,  for  in  one  moment  there  did  pass 

Into  this  wither'd  frame  the  might  of  France  ! — 

My  own  dear  France — I  have  thee  yet — I  have  saved  thee  ! 

I  clasp  thee  still  ! — it  was  thy  voice  that  call'd  me 

Back  from  the  tomb  ! — What  mistress  like  our  country  1 
Louis.  For  Mauprat's  pardon — well !     But  Julie — Richelieu, 

Leave  me  one  thing  to  love  ! 
Rich.  A  subject's  luxury  ! 

Yet  if  you  must  love  something,  Sire — love  me! 
Louis  (smiling  in  spite  of  himself ).  Fair  proxy  for  a  young  fresh  Demoi- 
selle ! 
Rich.  Your  heart  speaks  for  my  clients.     Kneel,  my  children  ; 

Thank  your  King.   (Richelieu  passes  up  the  stage;  the  Court  bow.) 


ACT  V.J  BlCHKLrEU.  61 

Julie.  Ah,  tears  like  these,  my  liege, 

Are  dews  that  mount  to  Heaven. 
Louis.  Rise — rise — be  happy,  (retires.) 

(Richelieu  comes  forward  and  beckons  to  De  Beringhen.) 
De  Bek.  ( fall 'eringly ;  r.).  My  Lord — you  are — most  happily — recover'd 
Rich.  But  you  are  pale,  dear  Beringhen  ; — this  air 

Suits  not  your  delicate  frame — I  long  have  thought  so  ; — 

Sleep  not  another  night  in  Paris.     Go — 

Or  else  your  precious  life  may  be  in  danger. 

Leave  France,  dear  Beringhen  ! 
De  Ber.  St.  Denis  travelled  without  his  head. 

I'm  luckier  than  St.  Denis.  [Exit  De  Beringhen,  r. 

Rich,  (to  Orleans).  For  you  repentance — absence — and  confession  ! 

[Exit  Orleans,  r. 
(to  Francois,  who  is  r.  c.)  Never  say  fail  again.    Brave  boy  !  (to  Joseph, 
crosses  to  c.)  He'll  be — 

A  Bishop  first. 

Jos.      (r.  c).  Ah,  Cardinal 

Rich.  (c).  Ah,  Joseph  !  (the  YLwhg  advances,  r.  c. ) 

(to  Louis,  as  De  Mauprat  and  Julie  converse  apart) 

See,  my  liege — see  thro'  plots  and  counterplots — 

Thro'  gain  and  loss — thro'  glory  and  disgace — 

Along  the  plains,  where  passionate  Discord  rears 

Eternal  Babel — still  the  holy  stream 

Of  human  happiness  glides  on  ! 
Louis.  And  must  we 

Thank  for  that  also — our  Prime  Minister  1 
Rich.  No — let  us  own  it : — there  is  One  above 

Sways  the  harmonious  mystery  of  the  world, 

Even  better  than  prime  ministers  ; — 

Thus  ends  it. 

Position  of  the  Characters  at  the  fall  of  the  Curtain. 

Pages. 

Courtiers.  Courtiers. 

Louis,  Richelieu. 

c. 
Francois.  Julie. 

r.  c.  l.  c. 

Joseph.  Mauprat. 


The  Characters  are  supposed  to  face  the  Audience. 
CURTAIN. 


THE  RIGHTFUL  HEIR. 

COPXBIGHT,  1875,  BX  ItOBEltT   M.  Dfi  WlTT. 


TIIK    K1UUIFCL    UK  I  It. 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

Lycrum  Thtatre. 
London,  Oct.  3,  1868. 

Vyvyan  (Captain  of  the  Privateer  Dreadnauglil) Mr.  Ban  dm  as  s. 

Sir  Grey  de  Malpas  (the  Poor  Cousin) Mr.  Hermans  Vezin. 

Wrecklyffe(*  Gentleman  turned  Pirate) Mr.  Lawlor. 

Lord  Beaufort  (Lady  Montreville's  Son) Mr.  Neville. 

Sir  Godfrey  Seymour  (a  Magistrate) 

Falkner.     >   ,.  .   _.  ,,  (  Mr.  Lin  Rayne. 

>  (\  yvyan  s  Lieutenants) <  .,      .__      .__ 

Harding,     j  C  "*r.  Anderson. 

Marsden  (Seneschal  of  the  Castle) • Mr.  David  Evans. 

Alton  (a  Village  Priest) Mr.  Bash.  Potter. 

Bub-Officer  of  the  Dreadnaught Mr.  Everard. 

Servant  to  Lady  Montreville Mr.  W.  Templeton. 

Lady  Montreville  (a  Widowed  Countess) Mrs.  Hermann  Vezin. 

Eveline  ( her  Ward ) Miss  Mii.ly  Palmer. 

Halberdiers,  Retainers,  Sailors,  Peasantry,  Servants,  etc.,  etc. 


TO    ALL    FRIENDS    AND    KINSFOLK 

THE    AMERICAN    COMMONWEALTH, 

THIS  DRAMA  IS  DEDICATED, 

WITH   AFFECTION    AND    RESPECT. 
London.  Sept.  28,  1868. 


PREFACE. 


Many  years  ago  this  Drama  was  re-written  from  an  earlier  play  by  the  same  Au- 
thor, called  "  The  Sea  Captain."  the  first  idea  of  which  was  suggested  by  a  striking 
situation  in  a  novel  by  M.  A.  Dumas  -Le  Capitaine  Paul).  The  Author  withdrew 
"  The  Sea  Captain  "  from  the  stage  (and  even  from  printed  publication),  while  it  had 
not  lost  such  degree  of  favor  as  the  admirable  acting  of  Mr.  Macready  chiefly  con- 
tributed to  obtain  for  it  •  intending  to  replace  it  before  the  public  with  some  import- 
ant changes  in  the  histrionic  cast,  and  certain  slight  alterations  in  the  conduct  of 
the  story.  But  the  alterations  once  commenced,  became  so  extensive  in  character, 
diction  and  even  in  revision  of  plot,  that  a  new  play  gradually  rose  from  the  foun- 
dations of  the  old  one.  The  task  thus  undertaken,  being  delayed  by  other  demands 
upon  time  and  thought,  was  scarcely  completed  when  Mr.  Macready's  retirement 
from  his  profession  suspended  the  Author's  literary  connection  with  the  stage,  and 
"  The  Rightful  Heir  "  has  remained  in  tranquil  seclusion  till  this  year,  when  he 
submits  his  appeal  to  the  proper  tribunal ;  sure,  that  if  he  fail  of  a  favorable  hear- 
ing, it  will  not  be  the  fault  of  the  friends  who  take  part  in  his  cause  and  act  in  his 
behalf. 


'1HK    1UG1I    FCL    HE1K. 

SCENERY. 

ACT  I.— Scene  I.— Castle  Ruins  in  4th  grooves. 


Wall. 


Door. 


Wall. 


Set  stones. 


Wall. 


Arch  door. 


On  flat,  view  of  the  sea  ;  l.  side,  cliffs  and  castle  ;  set  wall,  ruined,  10  to  12  feet 
high,  along  3d  grooves  and  l.  1  and  2  e.;  open  archway  l.  1  e.  set ;  low  set  wall  e.  2  e.; 
a  heap  of  set  stones  up  c,  to  aid  effect  of  picture  ;  a  set  tree  up  u.  c. ;  sky  sinks  and 
borders ;  curtain  for  covering  the  change  of  scene :  dark  velvet,  heavily  fringed  and 
bordered  deeply  with  fold,  in  two  parts,  to  draw  up  and  to  each  side  ;  with  coat  of 
arms,  royal  English  white  lion  and  red  griffin  guarding  shield  and  crown,  in  tapes- 
try ;  over  date  in  old  English,  1588. 

Scene  II.— Castle  gardens  in  5th  grooves. 


C  : 


Sea. 


:  D      Lime- 
:      *   light. 


:  []  f 


f  —  1   B 


F  []     . 
Archway. 


Platform.   : 


Steps. 


Seat. 


F  [] 


On  flat  foreground,  dark  blue  sea,  blending  with  the  canvas  down  in  u.  e.  ;  uppej 
two-thirds  light ;  bright  sky  ;  l.  side,  d.,  set  wall  of  castle  in  u.  e.  ;  3  e.,  set  wal 
with  open  archway  ;  1st  and  2d  grooves  wings,  walls  ;  all  this  side  is  dark  ;  r.  side. 


4  THE    R1GUTFUL    HEIR. 

c  ,  set  wall  continuing  the  castle,  supposed  to  be  off  u.  1  and  2  e.'s  ;  the  set  end  w..u 
a  cliff,  running  down  into  the  sea ;  B.  2  and  3  e.,  set  platform,  reached  by  broad  steps, 
six  feet  above  stage  level ;  A,  a  box,  with  large  box-wood  tree,  trimmed  into  fantas- 
tic shape  in  the  fashion  of  the  Elizabethan  age;  n.  2  groove  wing,  tree,  run  in  to 
mask  end  of  platform  ;  11.,  a  fountain,  playing  in  an  oval  basin ;  in  front  of  the 
bisin  a  half-ring  of  cauvas  down,  covered  with  flowers  and  moss;  E  E,  two  can- 
vases covered  with  flowers,  for  flower-beds ;  a  garden  scat  to  b.  1 ;  F,  F,  F,  F,  stat- 
ues, three-quarter  life  size  ;  the  upper  pair  kneeling  satyrs,  the  front  pair  nymphs 
erect;  limelight  l.  U.  e.,  lighting  up  R.  side. 

ACT  IT. — Scene  I.— Interior,  in  2d  grooves;  Gothic  architecture;  it.  on  f.,  wide 
hearth,  with  earl's  coronet  and  shield  on  the  keystone ;  k.  on  f.,  portrait  of  man, 
half  length,  to  resemble  the  personator  of  Vyvtan  in  face ;  the  painting  on  flat 
mikes  the  stage  seem  to  be  part  of  the  chamber  thereon  represented  ;  open  n.  and 
L. ;  table  and  three  chairs  on  at  C,  table  has  blue  cloth,  corded  with  gold  and 
trimmed  with  red  fringe  ;  chairs  have  an  old  English  M,  surmounted  by  a  coronet, 
in  dead  gold,  on  the  back,  inside. 

Scene  II. — Court-yard  and  Castle.     Exterior,  in  5th  grooves. 


Trap 
open. 


Open. 


[]  c 


IVickinT. 

Light 

• |  Ooen  [  .... 

[  J  C      archway. 


Steps. 


Open. 


[1  c 
Cresset  or  beacon-basket  on  wing. 


Sky  on  flat ;  the  lower  two-thirds  is  hidden  by  the  set  walls  n.  in  4th  grooves,  and 
in  3d  grooves,  c.  to  l.  ;  l.  side,  3  e.,  backing  of  wall,  to  large  open  archway  in  3  g. 
set  1  and  2  e.  closed  in;  small  open  archway  in  l.  1  e.  set;  dark,  except  l.  3  e., 
where  there  is  a  light ;  r.  side  3  and  4  e.,  castle  wall,  ending  in  cliff  over  the  sea ;  open 
trap,  for  the  ditch,  between  platform  (ten  feet  above  stage  level)  and  set  wall ;  steps 
to  platform  2  e.  ;  wings  are  walls ;  sky  sinks  and  borders ;  C,  C,  C,  C,  cannon  on 
block  carriages,  the  front  pair  pointed  at  each  other,  the  upper  pair  pointed  front ; 
tree  up  R.  ef  o.,  reaches  to  top  of  walls. 

ACT  III.— Scene  I.— Rocky  landscape,  sea  and  cliff,  in  2d  grooves ;  flat  to  roll  up  ; 
view  of  sea,  l.  side  ;  cliff  running  out  over  the  water;  all  of  2  e.  to  sink  and  carry 
down  the  set  rocks  built  up  on  it ;  along  1st  grooves,  low  flat  of  rocks,  to  sink ;  sky 
sink  and  borders  ;  trees  and  rocks  for  wings  ;  sunset  effect  by  limelight,  L.  tj.  e. 

Scene  II.— Same  as  Act  II.,  Scene  II.  ;  sunset  effect  l.  o.  e.  ;  stage  dark. 

ACT  IV. Scene  I. Same  as  Act  II.,  Scene  I. ;  table  and  chairs  not  on ;  a  chair 

and  a  settee  L. 


THE    KIGHTFUL    HEIR. 
Scene  II. — Cliff  and  Sea,  in  4th  grooves 


20  ft.  Platform.    : 

-    A 

Moon.                                                                : 

Steps.              : 

Open.                                                                  '• 



Profile  Rocks. 

Platform,  3  feet  above        |        13        | 
stage  level.                 > ' 

15  it.  Platform.  : 

—                • 

Steps. 

■                      Profile  Rocks.                                                 • 

Limelight  for  moonlight,  l.  v.  e.  ;  sea  on  flat,  with  full  moon  at  c. ;  the  wing  run 
in  on  4th  groove,  e.,  is  a  profile  edge  of  cliff;  by  having  a  piece  stand  out  half  way 
up  its  height,  the  piece  will  seem  to  be  the  base  of  another  cliff,  still  "further  out  in 
the  sea ;  l.  side,  rocky  cliff,  covering  in  all ;  1  e.,  set  steps,  leading  from  off  down 
upon  stage ;  sky  wings,  except  l.  1  g. ,  which  is  rocks ;  n.  side,  a  series  of  rocks, 
forming  steps  and  platforms  ;  all  practicable  ;  A,  a  tree  on  the  platform  edge,  joined 
to  a  piece  facing  the  platform,  so  that,  on  Vyvyan  seizing  it,  his  weight  brings  it 
down,  forces  it  to  draw  the  piece  joining  it  to  L.,  and  deposits  him  in  open  trap  C, 
in  3  e.  ;  B,  a  trap-net  used  in  this  scene. 


A  First  movement ;  tree  describes  segment  of  circle. 

k    A 


Tree. 


Cliff- 
piece. 


Stage  line 


ight  brings  the  cliff-piece  forward. 


Second  movement ;  tree  and  cliff- 
piece  drop  Yyvyan  into  trap. 


6  THE    ltlGHTFCL    HEIR, 

ACT  V.— Scene  I.— Same  as  Act  IV.,  Scene  II. ;  Trap  B  (see  Act  IV.,  Scene  II. i 
is  open  ;  dark. 

Scene  II. — Interior, in  1st  grooves;  deep  sink,  rafters  and  ceiling  j  window  n.  c.  in 
F.  open ;  two  chairs. 

Scene  III. -Hall  in  5th  grooves;  closed  in  b.  and  l.  ;  upper  e.  gallery  to  beai 
weight  of  spectators;  large  archway  in  its  front,  4th  grooves  ;  l.  2  e.,  dais,  with  can- 
opy over;  royal  arms  behind  chair;  table  L.  O.  ;  arch  it.  3  e.  ;  bannerets  hung  from 
wall;  stained  glass  window  in  flat. 


COSTUMES. 


Vyvyan.— Act  I. :  Black  hard  felt  hat,  four  or  five  inches  high  in  the  crown,  with  a 
white  ostrich  feather;  steel  gorget,  polished;  three  yards  long  scarlet  sash, 
six  inches  wide,  fringed  with  gold  at  the  end,  from  left  shoulder  to  right  hip, 

tied  behind,  with  loose  ends  ;  buff  leather  jerkin,  sleeveless  •  belt  around  waist  ; 
rapier,  black  and  steel  sheath,  cut  steel  hilt ;  doublet  and  loose  breeches  of 
slate  blue,  striped  up  and  down  with  black  cord  on  the  doublet,  striped  in 
chevron  on  the  breeches ;  buif  boots  pulled  up  to  above  the  knee  ;  small  satchel 
of  buff  leather,  hung  on  right  side,  with  dagger  under  it  ;  short  curl  block  wig, 
rather  short ;  moustache  and  imperial  ;  make-up  after  pictures  of  Essex,  Ral- 
eigh or  Drake.  Act  II. — Scene  I. :  Gorget  and  jerkin  removed.  Scene  11. .  Red 
Bcarf ;  sword  like  the  other,  in  similar  sheath,  for  throwing  aside.  Act  111.  and 
IV.:  Same  .is  last  ;  hat,  no  sword.  Act  V.  :  Half  armor:  helmet,  with  vizor 
to  close  ;  white  plume  ;  blue  sash  ;  steel-plated  gauntlets,  right  hand  one  to  be 
thrown  on  stage  ;  high  russet  boots  ;  thigh  armor  in  plates. 

Grey  df.  Mali'ar.— Face  made  up  for  rale,  cold,  passionless  expression,  prematurely 
aged  ;  moustache  and  imperial.  Act  1.  :  Brown  doublet,  striped  with  yellow 
cord;  slate-colored  tights  ;  shoes.  Scene  II. :  Same;  fur  cloak,  with  hanging 
sleeves  ;  flat  cap  ;  cane.     Act  V. :  Same  as  first  dress  ;  cane. 

"Wrecklyffe.— Black  wig,  long  loose  hair;  moustache,  with  flowing  ends;  chin 
beard ;  scar  across  right  eyebrow  and  cheekbone ;  steel  cap ;  long,  narrow 
mantle  of  dark  glazed  sea-green  water-proof,  worn  carelessly  over  one  arm 
and  about  the  body  ;  short  cutlass ;  brace  of  brass-mounted  pistols  stuck  in 
belt;  arms  bare  to  the  elbow;  seaman's  sleeveless  jacket  worn  loosely  over  a 
breast-plate,  tarnished. 

Godfrey  Seymour.— Old  man;  white  wig  and  moustache-  black  velvet  skull-cap, 
red  velvet  doublet,  with  hanging  sleeves,  trimmed  with  gold  lace;  slate-col- 
ored tights ;  velvet  shoes. 

Beaufort. — Act  I. :  Handsome  suit,  blue  and  gold  ;  sword  :  blue  velvet  round  cap, 
with  white  plume  russet  boots  drawn  up  to  above  the  knee.  Act  V.  :  Red 
and  black  doublet ;  red  tights ;  black  velvet  shoes ;  long  dark  mantle,  with 
sleeves,  trimmed  deeply  with  ermine  ;  face  pale. 

Falkner.— Plumed  hat ;  back  and  breast-plates     sword  ;  high  boots. 

Harding.  — Like  Falkner,  with  variation  in  color  of  his  doublet  sleeves,  of  feather 
of  his  hat,  etc. 

Alton. — Long  white  beard  ;  white  wig;  dark  cowl  and  long  gown.  Act  V.  :  Skull- 
cap ;  staff. 

Marsden.— Long  white  hair,  white  moustache  and  chin  heard;  handsome  laced 
suit;  doublet;  trunk  hose;  velvet  shoes,  slashed  and  puffed  ;  long  white  staff, 
with  gilt  coronet  on  top. 


IHE    HIGUiTUL    HEIK.  7 

Servant.  -Gray  livery,  turned  up  with  orange. 

Sailors.  -  In  Guernsey  shirts,  with  belts  supporting  cutlasses  and  pistols  ;  high 
boots ;  jackets  gathered  in  at  the  waist  by  sashes ;  tights  and  shoes. 

Servants. — Like  first  servant. 

Clerk  to  Seymour.— In  black. 

Halberdiers. — Steel  caps;  back,  breast  and  thigh  plates;  boots;  halberds  for 
them. 

Villagers.— As  usual. 

Lady  Montreville. — Fair-haired;  make  up  after  portraias  of  Queen  Elizabeth; 
if  the  ruff  does  not  look  becomingly,  have  a  deep  ruined  lace  collar  open  in 
front ;  jewelled  stomacher  ;  bodice  cut  square  at  the  bosom  ;  with  lace  let  in  ; 
velvet  body  and  skirt,  with  deep  border  jewelled  cross  to  long  necklace ;  ear- 
rings ;  wedding-ring;  velvet  band,  with  jewelled  beading,  on  the  head,  just 
behind  the  front  puffs  of  the  hair.  Act  V.:  Dark  velvet  skirt  and  body  ;  the 
bodice  faced  in  the  front  with  white  lace,  crossed  with  violet  braid. 

Eveline. — Hair  puffed  in  front,  and  in  loose  ringlets  in  a  bunch  at  back  of  head ; 
string  of  pearls  three  times  around  the  neck,  ending  in  locket  and  cross  ;  blue 
body  and  skirt ;  skirt  opens  in  front  and  shows  white  under-skirt ;  trimmed 
with  gold  cord.  Act  V. :  White  satin  dress  ;  face  pale,  with  the  white  on  the 
cheeks  to  come  off  and  show  color  under,  at  a  touch  of  hand  dampened  by  a 
breath. 

Village  Girls.— As  usual. 

Waiting  Women  for  Lady  Montreville.— As  usuaL 


PROPERTIES,  {See  Scenery). 

Act  I.— Scene  T. :  Spade  ;  coin  for  Vyvyan  ;  weapons  for  sailors.  Scene  II. :  A  hand- 
ful of  flowers  for  Eveline  to  enter  with,  ready  r.  1  e.  ;  cane  for  Malpas. 
Act  II. — Scene  I. :  Table  and  three  chairs  ;  on  table  a  two-handled  silver  goblet ; 
cups  and  plates  of  fruit  for  three.  Scene  II. :  Four  cannon  in  block  carriages, 
not  to  be  touched ;  a  cresset  or  beacon  basket,  at  end  of  a  rod,  hung  out  from 
i:.  1  E. ;  sheet  of  printed  paper,  foolscap  size.  Act  HI.— Scent  I.:  Staff;  roll 
of  MSS.  tied  up,  for  Alton.  Scene  II. :  Sword  hilt  in  sheath,  for  Vyvvan  to 
throw  aside.  Act  ir.-Scene  I. :  MSS.  roll,  as  in  Act  III.,  Scene  I.,  for  Vyv- 
yan to  enter  with,  ready  r.  Scene  II. :  Profile  miniature  ship,  to  work  from 
r.  to  L.  u.  e.  line.  Act  Y.— Scene  I. :  Canes,  as  before,  for  Malpas  and  Alton. 
Scene  II.  •  Salver ;  gold  cup,  jewelled ;  letter,  with  sealed  silk  band,  to  be 
opened  on  stage ;  handful  of  flowers  for  Eveline  to  enter  with,  ready  R. 
Scene  III.  Table  ;  chairs  ;  quflls,  inkdishes,  paper,  books,  on  table  ;  halberds 
lor  Halberdiers. 


TIME    OF    PLAYING— TWO    HOURS   AND    FORTY-FIVE   MINUTES. 


NOTE. 

The  few  "  cuts  "  are  marked  by  enclosure  between  quotations,  as  ' 


THE    KIGU1FLI.    IIEIIi. 


STORY  OF  THE  PLAY. 

Several  years  previous  to  the  opening  of  the  drama,  very  few  of  England's  proud 
and  wealthy  nobles  could  boast  of  a  fairer  name,  broader  lands,  or  a  more  ancient 
pedigree  than  the  Earl  of  Dartford.  Left  early  iu  years  a  widower,  his  entire  affec- 
tion was  centered  upon  an  only  daughter,  the  Lady  Geraldine,  for  whom  he  destiued 
a  brilliant  and  powerful  alliance.  It  so  happened,  however,  that  attached  to  the 
Earl's  household  was  a  young  page,  who,  though  his  origin  was  somewhat  lowly  as 
compared  with  that  of  those  by  whom  he  was  surrounded,  could  fairly  boast  of  a 
comely  form  combined  with  intellect,  gentleness,  and  courage.  Despite  the  differ- 
ence in  rank,  constant  association  brought  about  a  unity  of  sentiment  between  the 
handsome  page  and  the  fair  Geraldine,  which  speedily  ripened  into  love,  and  was 
hallowed  by  a  secret  marriage.  Their  meetings  remained  undetected  for  some  time, 
until  oue  unfortunate  evening,  when  a  kinsman  of  the  Earl's  tracked  the  bridegroom 
to  the  lady's  chamber.  As  ill  news  speeds  apace  so  sped  the  kinsman  to  his  noble 
relative  with  the  fearful  intelligence  of  his  child's  presumed  dishonor. 

With  all  the  direful  anger  of  a  ruined  house  maddening  his  actions,  the  Earl, 
seizing  his  sword,  hastened  to  his  daughter's  apartment,  and  forcing  the  door  which 
was  barred  against  his  entrance,  was  prepared  to  inflict  instant  death  upon  the  cause 
of  his  disgrace.  But  no  culprit  was  there  to  meet  his  angry  gaze ;  no  one  upon 
whom  he  could  wreak  his  deadly  vengeance— the  only  occupant  of  the  chamber  was 
his  daughter,  and  she  lay  senseless  upon  the  floor.  But  the  wide  opened  casement 
told  a  tale  that  could  deceive  no  one.  Whoever  had  been  there  previously  had  by 
that  means  made  his  escape,  hoping  to  save  the  lady's  honor;  only,  however,  to 
meet  a  certain  death.  The  chamber  was  situated  in  the  highest  part  of  the  castle, 
overlooking  a  long  and  steep  descent  of  rocks,  down  which  it  was  highly  dangerous 
to  pass  with  the  best  possible  assistance— without  it,  fatal.  The  morning  told  the 
tale  ;  the  page's  body  was  discovered  at  the  foot  of  the  rocks,  fearfully  mangled  ;  a 
hasty  midnight  burial  soon  concealed  his  shattered  remains  and  hid  the  bride's 
secret  from  the  outer  world. 

After  a  few  days  of  continued  insensibility,  a  child  was  born,  which  was  speedily 
removed  to  the  shelter  of  Alton,  the  Earl's  priest,  and  who  being  entirely  depen- 
dent upon  his  noble  patron,  was  easily  bound  to  inviolable  Becrecy.  The  only 
wonder  is  that  the  infant  was  not  destroyed,  and  thus  all  traces  of  the  presumed 
crime  obliterated.  Fate,  however,  willed  otherwise.  The  Lady  Geraldine  recovered! 
and  often  visited  the  priest's  abode  to  bless  and  caress  her  offspring,  and  she  placed 
in  the  holy  man's  keeping  every  proof  that  might  at  some  future  period  be  requisite 
to  substantiate  the  infant's  claims.  But  as  the  progress  of  time  wears  off  the  keen 
edge  of  sorrow,  so  fared  it  with  the  Lady  Geraldine. 

A  lordly  suitor  came — ambition  was  grafted  in  her  mind  and  soon  brought  forth 
its  fruits  ;  and  forced  by  the  surrounding  circumstances  of  a  haughty  and  threaten- 
ing father,  and  the  entreaties  of  a  wily  kinsman,  she  stifled  a  mother's  feelings,  for- 
sook her  child,  and  became  the  wife  of  the  Earl  of  Montreville.  New  ties  produced 
new  affections,  and  the  second  nuptials  brought  another  son,  for  whom  the  mother's 
love  became  warmer  and  more  enduring  than  for  her  first-born.  The  poor  priest, 
alarmed  at  the  change,  and  fearing  the  direst  results  if  his  secret  was  divulged,  ob- 
served the  strictest  silence,  and  continued  for  years  to  rear  as  one  of  his  own,  the 
infant  entrusted  to  his  care,  until  at  a  youthful  age,  the  boy  was  enticed  on  board  a 
vessel  which  happened  to  touch  upon  the  coast,  and  borne  away.  This,  however, 
was  not  the  work  of  chance,  but  was  really  accomplished  by  the  designs  of  a  poor 
cousin  of  the  family,  Sir  Grey  de  Malpas,  who  hoped  some  future  day  to  obtain  pos- 
session of  the  title  and  estates.  At  his  instigation,  Wrecklyffe,  who  had  lost  the 
fortune  and  position  of  a  gentleman,  and  mixed  himself  up  in  piratical  pursuits, 
sought  the  hamlet  where  the  priest  resided,  and  by  his  rough  yet  gallant  bearing) 
so  well  adapted  for  winning  the  admiration  of  a  youth  of  spirit,  and  his  stories  of 


THE    HIGHIFCL    HEIK.  9 

danger,  enterprise,  and  wealth  soon  secured  a  strong  hold  over  his  intended  prize, 
and  induced  him  to  board  his  vessel  and  join  in  a  cruise  to  the  regions  of  affluence 
he  had  depicted. 

Days  afterwards,  when  far  at  sea,  the  true  character  of  the  ship  was  revealed, 
The  pirate's  flag  was  hoisted,  and  the  captain  in  brief  words  told  his  captive  that 
there  was  a  choice  of  lite  or  death  before  him— to  join  the  pirate  crew,  or  seek  a  last 
resting  place  in  the  ocean  ;  confessing  that  he  had  been  well  paid  to  get  him  out  of 
the  way.  But  the  noble  spirit  of  the  youth  was  aroused  by  the  desperate  nature  of 
the  position  in  which  he  found  himself;  it  was  but  the  work  of  an  instant  to  snatch 
a  cutlass  from  the  hands  of  a  sailor  near  him,  and  in  a  moment  more  the  pirate  lay 
upon  the  deck  weltering  in  blood.  The  scowling  crew  at  first  cried  out  for  vengeance, 
but  Wrecklyffe,  who  was  second  in  command,  was  deeply  imbued  with  a  supersti- 
tious belief  that  it  was  unlucky  to  shed  blood  on  board  a  ship  unless  in  actual  fight- 
ing, and  he  therefore  managed  to  restrain  their  fierce  anger,  and  directed  them  to 
seize  the  youth  and  bind  him  to  a  single  plank.  So  soon  as  this  was  done  he  was 
cist  over  the  vessel's  side,  and  thus  left  to  the  m  rcy  of  the  elements  and  Qod ;  all 
Bail  was  set,  and  very  soon  the  little  craft,  which  had  promised  to  be  the  means  of 
conveying  him  to  a  haven  of  happiness  and  prosperity,  was  lost  to  sight.  For  two 
days  and  nights  was  he  tossed  upon  the  waves  until  lie  lost  all  consciousness  ;  when 
he  came  to,  he  found  that  he  had  been  discovered  and  rescued  by  one  of  the  Queen's 
ships  on  her  voyage  to  meet  the  Spanish  cruisers. 

With  health  restored,  he  was  installed  amongst  the  crew,  and  by  his  gallant  and 
courageous  bearing  soon  won  a  foremost  position.  During  the  vessel's  cruise,  he  was 
instrumental  in  saving  the  lives  of  the  Lady  Eveline  and  her  father  from  a  band  of 
Algerine  pirates,  and  during  the  time  she  remained  on  the  ship  a  mutual  attach- 
ment sprung  up  between  them,  promising,  if  fate  so  willed  it,  a  happy  union  at  some 
future  day.  Vows  of  constancy  and  truth  were  exchanged  when  she  was  trans- 
ferred to  a  homeward-bound  ship.  Time  worked  many  changes  ;  the  Earl  of  Dart- 
ford  died;  the  Earl  of  Montreville  also  passed  away,  and  the  son  of  the  second 
marriage  succeeded  to  the  estates,  and  became  Lord  Beaufort  of  Montreville.  Eve- 
line's father  also  was  summoned  to  join  his  ancestors,  and  being  related  to  the  Mon- 
treville family,  she  became  the  ward  and  companion  of  the  widowed  Countess,  in 
which  position  she  inspired  the  young  lord  with  strong  feelings  of  love,  though  her 
heart  remained  true  to,  and  silently  yearned  after,  her  sailor  lover,  who,  under  the 
name  of  Vy  vyan,  had  risen  to  the  rank  of  captain  in  command  of  the  Dreadnaught, 
one  of  the  smartest  of  the  royal  privateers. 

Such  then  is  the  previous  history  of  the  characters  who  figure  at  the  opening  of 
the  play.  Sir  Grey  de  Malpas  has  been  installed  as  steward ;  still,  the  chains  of 
poverty  gall  him,  but  he  consoles  himself  by  believing  that  he  shall  one  day  realize 
the  ambition  of  his  life,  the  title  and  revenues  of  the  earldom,  to  which  he  is  next 
in  the  succession  upon  the  failure  of  the  direct  issue.  But  sore  troubles  are  in  store 
for  him.  Whilst  working  in  the  castle  grounds  his  reveries  are  wofully  disturbed 
by  the  sudden  appearance  of  Wrecklyffe,  whom  he  at  first  fails  to  recognize,  and 
from  whom  he  learns,  to  his  dismay,  not  only  that  the  boy  still  lives,  but  that 
Wrecklyffe,  whilst  secreting  himself  amongst  the  rocks  that  morning,  has  actually 
seen  him  approaching  the  castle.  Whilst  speaking  he  perceives  Vyvyan  approach- 
ing, and,  pointing  him  out  to  Sir  Grey,  they  withdraw  to  talk  over  the  past,  and 
lay  down  plans  for  the^uture. 

Vyvyan  is  waiting  orders  to  sail  forth  to  meet  the  armament  which  Spain  is  fitting 
out  for  an  intended  attack  upon  England,  and  he  takes  the  opportunity  of  his  ship 
being  at  anchor  in  an  adjacent  bay  to  visit  Montreville,  and  also  to  seek  an  inter- 
view with  the  priest,  and  endeavor  to  obtain  from  him  the  secret  of  his  birth  and 
such  proofs  as  he  may  possess.  With  this  object  he  bids  Falkner,  one  of  his  lieu- 
tenants, seek  out  Alton,  and  inform  him  of  his  safe  arrival  and  of  his  intended  visit. 
These  instructions  are  overheard  by  Sir  Grey,  who  determines  to  prevent  the  inter- 
view. 

It  so  nappens  that  this  day  is  the  anniversary  of  the  first  son's  birth,  and  a  dream 


10  THE   BXGimUL    HEIR. 

■which  the  Countess  has  had  culls  the  circumstance  most  forcibly  to  her  mind  ;  but 
the  thought  thut  the  ocean,  in  proving  to  be,  as  she  imagines,  his  winding  sheet, 
has  wiped  out  shame  and  slander,  tends  to  soothe  and  soften  thoughts  that  might 
otherwise  be  distressing.  She  derives  further  support  and  joy,  however,  from  the 
pride  with  which  she  sees  Lord  Beaufort  increasing  day  by  day  in  comely  looks  and 
gallant,  princely  bearing,  entertaining  for  him  an  almost  idolatrous  love  ;  but  she  is 
vexed  at  his  avowal  of  his  love  for  Eveline,  having  determined  he  should  make  a 
far  more  exalted  m  itch.  Whilst  pondering  over  this  obstacle  to  the  fulfillment  of 
her  designs,  Sir  Grey  seeks  an  interview,  and  in  bitter  and  vindictive  language  con- 
veys to  her  the  startling  intelligence  that  her  first-born  lives.  With  gloating  re- 
venge he  points  out  to  her  how  he  has  suffered  the  stings  of  poverty,  and  pictures 
how,  if  the  elder  son  should  prove  lii-s  rights,  Lord  Beaufort  must  descend  from  his 
haughty  state,  and  feel  some  of  the  pangs  and  sufferings  he  has  himself  endured. 
In  agonizing  terror  she  offers  to  give  him  gold  in  abundance  to  aid  her  in  prevent- 
ing this  ;  but  scornfully  rejecting  it,  he  tells  her  how  that  when  young  he  pined  for 
gold,  and  sought  her  father's  help  to  wed  the  ward  he  loved ;  but  the  only  answer  he 
received  was, 

"  Toor  cousins  should  not  marry." 

And  again,  in  later  years,  when  seeking  to  join  the  company  of  knights  and  gen- 
tlemen, her  father's  reply  was, 

"  He  had  need  of  his  poor  cousin 
At  home,  to  be  his  huntsman  and  his  falconer." 

Even  now,  he  reminds  her,  he  is  compelled  to  sit  at  the  second  table,  bear  the  jokes 
of  the  menials,  and  submit  tamely  to  the  whims  and  caprices  of  the  young  lord. 
He  consents,  however,  ultimately,  to  assist,  promising  he  will  only  ask  for  payment 
when  the  work  is  done. 

The  meeting  which  now  takes  place  between  Vyvyan  and  Eveline  is,  as  may  well 
be  imagined,  a  joyous  one,  but  slightly  clouded  by  the  picture  Eveline  draws  of  the 
haughty  bearing  of  the  Countess.  Vyvyan,  however,  bids  her  cheer  up,  and  de- 
scribes to  her  in  glowing  terms  a  fanciful  home  of  happiness  and  bliss  that  will  re- 
pay all  their  cares  and  suffering,  leading  her  away  to  dream  of  every  joy,  and  forget 
for  the  time  that  they  are  orphans. 

Returning  from  their  consultation,  Sir  Grey  arranges  to  send  a  trusty  messenger 
to  the  priest,  and  force  from  him  whatever  proofs  he  may  possess,  and  he  abjures 
Lady  Montreville  to  nerve  herself  to  meet  Vyvyan  as  a  perfect  stranger,  detaining 
him  as  long  as  possible.  Sir  Grey  has  scarcely  departed,  when  Eveline  and  Vyvyan 
return,  and  it  requires  very  powerful  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  Countess  to  meet  his 
gaze,  and  request  him  to  accept  the  hospitality  of  the  castle. 

During  the  interview  which  follows  Vyvyan,  at  the  earnest  suggestion  of  Eveline, 
who  thinks  that  the  mournful  tale  of  his  e  irly  years  will  secure  him  a  friend,  de- 
scribes the  story  of  his  past  life,  in  language  and  incident  well  chosen  and  vigorously 
rendered.  His  ardor  and  enthusiasm  enchant  Eveline,  and  Lady  Montreville,  per- 
ceiving how  devotedly  they  are  attached  to  each  other,  determines  to  turn  it  to  ad- 
vantage by  bringing  about  a  speedy  secret  marriage,  and  an  immediate  departure, 
so  as  to  prevent,  or,  at  least,  to  delay  considerably,  Vyvyan's  interview  with  the 
priest.  But  ere  she  can  thoroughly  mould  her  plans  into  shape,  the  pent-up  feel- 
ings of  a  mother  struggle  to  be  free,  and  she  hurriedly  leaves  to  shed  in  solitude  bit. 
ter,  scalding  tears  for  the  child  she  dare  not  acknowledge. 

In  the  course  of  wandering  through  the  grounds  Vyvyan  and  Eveline  are  observed 
by  Lord  Beaufort,  to  whom  no  introduction  has  yet  been  made.  In  the  angry  flash- 
ing of  his  haughty  eye  at  perceiving  a  stranger  walking  with  his  cousin,  Sir  Grey 
quickly  detects  the  rousing  of  jealousy,  and  determines  to  take  advantage  of  it,  and 
therefore  tells  him  that  during  his  absence  the  Countess  had  received  the  stranger 
as  a  guest  and  as  a  wooer  of  his  cousin,  and  pretending  not  to  know  his  name,  sug- 
gests that  Beaufort  should  inquire  of  Eveline  herself.  Angrily  striding  up  to  Vyv- 
yan, he  accosts  him  in  haughty,  overbearing  terms,  and  when  met  with  a  reply  as  to 
the  gallant  calling  he  follows,  he  commands  him  not  to  presume  too  much,  but  to 


THI'I    KIGUXFt'L    HEIR.  11 

seek  the  steward  of  the  castle,  and  by  him  be  lodged  with  those  who  are  more  his 
equals.  The  insult  thus  offered  calls  forth  a  bitter  reply  from  Vyvyan,  and  an  en- 
counter is  only  prevented  by  the  arrival  of  Lady  liontreville,  and  even  then,  when 
leaving-,  Beaufort  whisper*  threateningly  to  Vyvyan,  "Again,  and  soon,  sir  1 rl 

Drawing  her  guest  into  conversation,  Lady  Montreville  gleans  from  him  that  the 
object  of  his  visit  was  twofold— to  claim  Eveline  as  his  bride,  and  to  discover,  if 
Heaven  so  willed,  a  parent's  heart  ;  but  if  his  country  should  be  in  danger,  that  call 
must  be  the  first  obeyed.  In  the  promotion  of  these  intentions  the  Countess 
warmly  acquiesces.  She  points  out  the  fiery  temper  of  Beaufort,  and  urges  Vyvyan 
to  consent  to  a  marriage  that  very  night,  promising  a  handsome  dowry,  and  then  to 
sail  away  at  once,  thus  putting  miles  of  distance  between  himself  and  bride  and  his 
jealous  rival;  and  she  promises  further  to  use  all  her  power  and  wealth  in  tracing 
out  his  parents.  It  is  a  heavy  trial,  and  she  almost  betrays  herself,  when  Vyvyan 
passionately  implores  her  to  find  him  a  mother  with  eyes  like  her  own,  and  when 
she  kisses  him,  he  pictures  to  her  an  angel's  hand  lifting  up  the  veil  of  time,  and 
revealing  to  him  a  face  like  hers  bending  over  his  infant  couch. 

Falkner  now  returns  with  tidings  from  the  English  Admiral  Drake  that  the 
Spanish  fleet,  known  as  the  Armada,  has  set  sail ;  and  he  also  brings  word  that  the 
priest  has  ample  proofs  of  Vyvyan's  birth,  and  will  meet  him  with  them  at  St.  Kal- 
ian's Cliff — a  lone  spot  in  the  neighborhood  where  they  are  not  likely  to  be  observed. 
Vyvyan  determines  to  see  Eveline  and  then  the  priest,  whilst  his  trusty  lieutenant, 
Falkner,  calls  the  crews  together,  and  gets  the  vessels  ready  for  sea. 

By  the  activity  of  Falkner  in  reaching  Alton  before  Sir  Grey's  agent,  his  designs 
to  obtain  the  papers  are  thwarted,  and  consequently,  at  the  meeting  which  takes 
place  between  Alton  and  Vyvyan,  the  latter  learns  the  particulars  of  his  birth,  and, 
with  a  throbbing  heart,  hastens  to  seek  Lady  Montreville,  and  claim  a  mother's 
fond  embrace. 

In  the  meantime  she  makes  Sir  Grey  acquainted  with  her  plans,  and  she  also 
seeks  Lord  Beaufort  to  sound  him  as  to  his  feelings  should  reverses  overtake  him. 
Proudly  he  upbraids  her  for  such  fancies,  and  in  glowing  terms  portrays  the  high 
position  that  he  holds — the  ancient  name  he  bears  in  trust  for  sons  unborn — and  so 
warmly  and  boldly  is  the  picture  drawn,  that  remorse  is  stilled  within  the  mother's 
bosom,  and  she  swears  to  know  no  other  son,  closing  the  gates  of  feeling  against  the 
stranger  guest. 

Vyvyan  makes  Eveline  acquainted  with  his  sudden  departure,  and  whilst  doing  so 
is  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Lord  Beaufort  and  Sir  Grey  de  Malpas.  The  latter 
artfully  draws  Eveline  aside,  whilst  Beaufort,  writhing  with  anger  and  jealousy  at 
the  new  proofs  of  love  he  has  witnessed,  demands  of  Vyvyan  to  name  the  spot  and 
hour  where  they  shall  meet  again.  To  this  Vyvyan  readily  consents,  and  names 
.  St.  Kinian's  Cliff,  determining  to  go  there  unarmed,  and,  after  revealing  the  newly 
discovered  secret,  to  embrace,  and  not  to  fight,  a  brother. 

Sir  Grey  now  sees  that  he  has  succeeded  in  raising  a  storm,  but  the  ultimate  re- 
sult, skillful  schemer  as  he  is,  is  not  quite  clear  to  him  ;  help,  however,  is  at  hand. 
Wrecklyffe  has  overheard  the  appointment,  and  he  tells  Sir  Grey  that  he  will  be 
there  to  have  revenge  upon  Vyvyan,  who  had  caused  him  to  be  branded  with  the 
name  of  felon.  Sir  Grey  at  once  perceives  a  way  to  work  out  his  schemes  ;  he  be- 
seeches Wreeklvff;  to  hold  back  and  let  Vyvyan  first  meet  Beaufort,  to  watch  them, 
and  if  Beaufort  should  slay  Vyvyan,  who  will  be  unarmed,  not  to  prevent  it  nor 
assist.  Wrecklyffe  suggests  that  this  is  murder,  which  is  precisely  what  Sir  Grey 
intends  it  should  be,  for  then  the  murderer  would  die  beneath  the  headsman's  axe, 
and,  the  two  lives  thus  removed,  Sir  Grey  d  ■  Malpas  would  be  Lord  of  Montreville, 
in  which  case  he  promises  to  make  Wrecklyffe  the  richest  squire  in  all  his  train. 
The  scheme  savors  well  of  success  to  the  outcast  pirate,  but  he  suggests  that  Beau- 
fort may  fail  or  relent.  For  this  emergency  Sir  Grey  is  prepared.  Should  such  an 
event  occur,  Wrecklyffe  could  then  gratify  his  revenge.  Vyvyan's  corpse  would  be 
found  upon  the  spot  where  Beaufort,  armed,  had  arranged  to  meet  him,  and  suspi- 
cion would  fall,  with  almost  unerring  certainty,  upon  Beaufort,  when  the  secret  of 


12  THK    lUGUlFUL    HKIE. 

his  presumed  victim's  birth  and  rivalry  in  love  were  known.  'Wrecklyffe  is  satis- 
fied, and  departs  with  the  firm  determination  that  by  the  hand  of  himself  or  Beau- 
fort, that  nigbt,  the  unsuspecting  Vyvyan  dies.  Then,  in  a  well-conceived  and 
fiuely-expressed  soliloquy,  Sir  Grey  pictures  his  rise  from  poverty  to  wealth,  and  as 
he  retires,  chuckling  with  delight  over  his  cunning  scheme,  he  observes  : 

"  U  ick,  conscience,  back  !     Go  scowl  on  boors  and  beggars  ! 
Koom,  smiling  flatterers,  room  for  the  new  Karl  !" 

Before  setting  out,  Vyvyan  determines  to  seek  an  audience  of  Lady  Montreville, 
and  acquaint  her  with  the  information  he  has  gained.  She  nerves  herself  to  the 
trial ;  vehemently  accuses  him  of  being  an  imposter,  and  calls  upon  her  attendants 
to  cast  him  forth,  but  when  they  come  to  do  her  bidding  she  falters ;  the  image  of 
her  husband  stands  before  her,  and  she  cannot  give  the  order.  Left  alone,  she  describes 
in  an  agony  of  grief  the  sufferings  she  has  endured  ;  her  belief  in  his  death,  and  the 
growth  of  her  stroug  affection  for  Beaufort.  She  pictures  the  desolation  that  will 
now  be  wrought  by  this  sudden  rising  from  the  grave,  as  it  were,  and  proffering  him 
wealth  in  abundance,  implores  his  acceptance,  and,  blessed  with  Eveline's  love,  his 
renunciation  of  his  mother  forever.  All  this  he  rejects  ;  he  wi  I  never  renounce  her ; 
but  for  the  papers,  the  proofs  of  birth,  he  will  treat  them  as  worthless;  no  lands  and 
noble  title  did  lie  seek,  but  the  richest  prize  of  all,  a  parent's  love  ;  and  he  asks  only 
that  he  may  be  able  to  say  in  years  to  come  that  lie  received  a  mother's  blessing. 
The  victory  is  gained,  and  with  a  passionate  embrace,  the  weeping  Countess  invokes 
the  blessing  of  Heaven  upon  her  first-born.  Then  shines  forth  the  true  nobility  of 
Vy  vyan's  nature  ;  he  stifles  his  emotion  ;  a  single  kiss  declares  the  seal  of  secrecy 
upon  his  lips  ;  that  henceforth  he  will  be  dead  to  her,  and  whilst  he  receives  a  fer- 
vent prayer  for  his  welfare,  he  bids  her  farewell  tor  ever. 

Beaufort  is  punctual  in  his  appointment  at  St.  Kinian's  Cliff,  though  he  is  very 
nearly  forestalled  by  Wrecklyffe,  who  conceals  himself  amongst  the  rocks  as  he  hears 
the  shouts  of  the  approaching  Vyvyan.  The  pent-up  anger  of  Beaufort  bursts  forth 
upon  his  arrival,  and  as  lie  seizes  Vyvyan  he  reminds  him  that  though  he  may  pre- 
sume upon  his  youthful  years,  his  playmates  have  been  veterans,  his  toy  a  sword, 
and  his  first  lesson  valor. 

But  Vyvyan  is  immovable  to  anger,  and  bids  him  strike  and  then  tell  his  mother 
that  he  pardoned  and  pitied  him.  At  this  moment  the  signal  guns  are  heard  calling 
all  hands  to  the  ships,  and  pushing  him  aside,  Vyvyan  endeavors  to  force  his  path 
towards  the  buy.  Exasperated  almost  to  madness,  Beaufort  with  drawn  sword  im- 
pedes the  attempt,  presses  him  to  the  edge  of  the  lofty  overhanging  cliff,  and  calls 
upon  him  to  stand  or  die.  It  is  in  vain  that  Vyvyan  urges  him  to  forbear  ;  every 
vein  runs  fire ;  he  is  lost  to  all  reason  ;  lie  presses  still  closer,  Vyvyan  catches  hold 
of  the  bough  of  a  tree  for  support,  and  as  Beaufort  raises  his  sword  to  strike,  the 
treacherous  branch  gives  way  beneath  Vyvyan's  weight,  and  he  is  cast  over  the  edge 
of  the  precipice.  "With  a  cry  of  horror  at  the  sudden  disappearance  of  his  rival, 
Beaufort  falls  senseless  ;  at  the  same  moment,  Wrecklyffe  hurries  from  his  hiding- 
place  and  hastens  down  the  sides  of  the  cliff,  determined  to  complete  the  deed  should 
any  signs  of  life  remain. 

Twelve  months  elapse,  and  no  tidings  have  been  heard  of  either  Vyvyan  or  the 
pirate ;  people  imagine  they  must  have  gone  off  in  the  ships  ;  but  to  Sir  Grey  their 
disappearance  is  easily  accounted  for.  Wrecklyffe  must  have  seen,  and  perhaps  as- 
sisted, in  the  murder  of  Vyvyan,  and  then  been  well  paid  to  depart.  Of  Beaufort's 
guilt,  Sir  Grey  has  no  doubt ;  he  has  been  seized  with  a  fixed  melancholy,  lonely, 
wandering  habits,  and  a  mind  always  ill  at  ease;  and  the  grief  and  seclusion  of 
Lady  Montreville  confhm  Sir  Grey's  views.  But  how  to  prove  the  fact?  "Where 
is  the  evidence  to  back  up  the  charge  ? 

"  How  cry,  *  Lo  !  murder  !'  yet  produce  no  corpse  ?" 

Whilst  thus  debating,  the  priest  arrives  with  the  intelligence  that  Falkner  has 
just  returned  from  his  voyage,  and  that  Vyvyan  did  not  accompany  him.  The  old 
man's  heart  is  bowed  with  grief  as  he  hints  that  murder  must  have  been  at  work  ; 
an  idea  which  Sir  Grey  repudiates  with  affected  indignation,  but  suggests    that  a 


THE    RIGHTFUL    HF.Ili.  13 

careful  search  should  be  made  and  the  assistance  obtained  of  Sir  Godfrey  Seymour,  a 
great  magistrate  of  the  neighborhood  Falkner  now  arriving  with  some  of  his 
crew,  learns  the  full  particulars  of  the  rivalry  and  challenge  of  Beaufort.  Th» 
hour,  night — the  meeting  place,  the  very  spot  on  which  he  is  now  standing  ;  crags, 
caves  and  chasms  below,  with  gushing  streams,  and  ledges  jutting  out,  forming 
slender  and  half-hidden  resting  places  ;  might  not  in  one  of  these  the  bones  of  Vy_ 
vyan  rest  ?  With  the  brave  and  faithful  sailor  thought  is  action,  and  ere  the  others 
can  surmise  his  intention,  he  disappears  from  amongst  them  and  attempts  the  per- 
ilous descent  of  the  cliff,  watched,  with  straining  eyeballs,  by  Sir  Grey,  who  prays 
that  some  evidence  may  be  found  to  support  the  charge  he  intends  to  make. 

The  grief  and  ngony  Lady  Montreville  endures  from  the  change  which  has  taken 
place  in  Beaufort  is  almost  unbearable  ;  her  heart  bleeds  as  she  sees  him  throw 
aside  all  the  pursuits  in  which  he  once  so  spiritedly  indulged  ;  moving  about  with 
hollow  tread  and  listless  gaze,  as  though  life  had  ceased  to  possess  for  him  a  single 
charm.  His  reason  seems  impaired,  for  when  she  tells  him  that  the  Queen  has  been 
pleased  to  appoint  him  one  of  her  chosen  knights,  and  that  the  noblest  gentleman 
in  the  land,  the  Earl  of  Essex,  is  on  his  way  from  his  victory  over  the  Spaniards, 
and  intends  to  pay  him  a  visit,"  it  fails  to  arouse  his  wonted  ardor  and  enthusiasm, 
and  he  coldly  and  sternly  refuses  to  welcome  Essex  or  to  put  on  his  knightly  trap- 
pings. The  spirit  of  madness  seems  to  be  working  through  the  household,  for  poor 
Eveline  appears  stricken  down,  wandering  about  the  place,  singing  dolefully  : — 

"  Blossoms,  I  weave  ye 

To  drift  on  the  sea, 
Say  when  you  find  him 
"Who  sang  '  Woe  is  me  1'  " 
as  she  casts  the  garlands  upon  the  waters  without,  and  watchps  the  waves  toss  them 
to  and  fro,  with  a  sort  of  childish  glee. 

All  this,  not  particularly  pleasant  domestic  felicity,  is  interrupted  by  the  arrival 
of  Sir  Godfrey  Seymour,  who,  having  been  made  acquainted  with  the  particulars  of 
Vyvyan's  disappearance,  has  summoned  a  court  of  justice  to  be  held  in  the  great 
hall  of  the  castle,  and  commanded  the  attendance  of  the  persons  interested. 

It  is  pretty  certain  to  all  that  in  this  inquiry  the  truth  will  be  elicited,  for  Sir 
Godfrey  Seymour  bears  a  high  repute  as  being  not  only  a  stern  but  a  very  shrewd 
judge  ;  and  when  the  announcement  is  made  that  the  plume  and  various  gems  and 
ornaments  known  to  belong  to  Vyvyan  have  been  found  amongst  a  heap  of  human 
bones  discovered  at  the  bottom  of  the  precipice,  Sir  Grey's  heart  beats  with  delight 
at  the  prospective  certainty  of  success. 

Falkner  is  a  stern  accuser,  but  at  the  same  time  is  much  moved  by  the  deep  re- 
morse which  Beaufort  exhibits,  and  he  makes  an  earnest  appeal  to  him  to  confess 
that,  in  jealous  phrenzy,  swords  were  drawn,  and  they  fought  as  man  to  man.  But 
the  young  lord  is  silent,  and  his  mother  urges  him  to  remember  his  birth  and  rank, 
to  remain  firm  and  unmoved,  and  to  confess  nothing.  The  trial  proceeds,  and  it 
seems  clear  that  jealousy  was  the  cause  of  the  quarrel,  upon  which  grounds  the 
judge  appears  inclined  to  deal  leniently  with  the  accused,  when  Sir  Grey,  seizing 
the  opportunity,  forces  the  priest  to  the  witness  stand,  and  the  seciet  of  Vyvyan's 
birth  is  revealed.  The  shock  is  too  great  for  Beaufort,  and,  rejecting  the  accusation 
of  assassin,  proclaims  himself  a  fratricide.  But  Eveline,  firm  in  faith  of  the  won- 
drous power  which  has  hitherto  preserved  Vyvyan,  still  believes  that  he  is  living, 
whilst  the  distracted  mother  endeavors  to  shield  her  son  by  suggesting  that  the  law 
wiil  spare  him  if  it  can  be  shown  that  she  had  urged  him  to  do  the  deed.  It  is  in 
vain  ;  Sir  Godfrey  is  inflexible,  and,  sternly  chiding,  commits  her  and  her  son  to  the 
custody  of  the  future  earl,  Sir  Grey  de  Malpas,  to  be  hold  as  prisoners  for  further 
trial. 

The  triumph  of  the  arch-schemer,  however,  is  very  brief,  for,  before  lie  can  re- 
move the  accused,  the  attendants  announce  the  approach  of  a  knight  belonging  to 
the  cavalcade  of  the  Earl  of  Essex,  then  in  the  vicinity  of  the  castle,  and  who,  hear- 
ing of  the  proceedings  going  on,  is  hastening  to  the  hall,  and  follows  the  messenger 


14  THE    KIGiIlU'L    HKIIl. 

upon  the  scene.  Fully  equipped,  and  with  his  vizor  down,  none  can  recognize  the 
new-comer,  wlin,  quickly  understanding  the  position  of  affairs,  throws  down  his 
gauntlet  as  a  challenge  to  any  one  who  da.es  assert  that  Beaufort  and  his  mother 
are  guilty.  He  then  relates  the  circumstances  of  the  meeting;  the  breaking  of  the 
bough  ;  that  Vyvyan's  fall  wan  broken  by  a  bush-grown  ledge,  upon  which  he  lay 
lor  some  minutes  iusensible,  and  that,  when  recovering,  he  saw  upon  a  crag  near 
him  the  pirate,  Wrecklytfe,  with  uplifted  steel,  prepared  to  slay  him  ;  but  ut  that 
instant  the  crag  gave  way,  and  the  would-be  assassin  fell  to  the  bottom  of  the  abyss. 
As  soon  an  lie  could  gather  strength,  Vyvyan  crawled  down  the  rocks,  and  reached 
the  dying  man  in  sufficient  time  to  receive  his  confession  of  the  murderous  trap 
that  had  been  prepared.  Staggered  and  bewildered  at  this  recital,  Sir  Grey  sum- 
mons up  all  his  courage,  and,  drawing  his  sword,  asserts  vehemently  that  Vyvyan 
died  by  Beaufort's  hand,  as  he  is  prepared  to  prove  ;  but  the  knight  calmly  bids 
him  write  the  lie  upon  the  face  of  truth,  and,  raising  his  vizor,  gives  convincing 
proof  of  the  innocence  of  the  accused  by  discovering  himself  us  the  missing  Vyvyan. 
.Sinking  senseless  and  defeated  into  the  arms  of  the  attendants,  Sir  Grey  de  Malpas 
finishes  his  career  of  villainy.  Vyvyan  briefly  explains  by  what  means,  finding  his 
vessel  gone,  he  had  joined  the  army  of  the  K  til  of  Essex,  and  won  his  way  to  fame, 
receiving  the  honor  of  knighthood.  Then,  embracing  with  joy  his  faithful  Eveline 
and  stricken  mother,  he  proclaims  his  will  that  his  erring  brother  shall  share  with 
him  his  fortune  and  his  parent's  love,  although  to  the  title  and  estates  of  Montre- 
ville  he  alone  becomes  Tub  Rightful  Heib, 


REMARKS. 


Is  the  year  1839,  the  noble  author  of  the  "  Lady  of  Lyons  "  and  "  Richelieu  "  made 
another  venture  to  obtain  the  favorable  applause  of  the  play-going  public,  by  pro- 
ducing a  piece  called  "  The  Sea  Captain,"  the  idea  of  which  had  been  suggested  by  a 
Ktrikiug  situation  in  one  of  Alexandre  Dumas'  novels,  "  Le  Capitaine  Paul." 

In  October  of  that  year,  the  eminent  tragedian,  Mr.  Macready,  resigned  his  labors 
at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Covent  Garden,  Loudon,  and  transferred  himself  to  the  Thea- 
tre Royal,  Haymarket,  then  under  the  management  of  Mr.  Benjamin  Webster,  with 
whom  he  entered  into  an  engagement  at  a  salary  of  JC100  per  week  (about  500  dol" 
1  us).  The  manuscript  of  the  new  play  was  put  into  his  hands  for  perusal,  and 
meeting  with  his  approval,  was  at  once  placed  in  rehearsal,  in  which  the  author 
assisted. 

It  received,  as  a  matter  of  course,  from  an  actor  and  manager  of  such  skill  and 
liberality  as  Mr.  Webster,  every  attention  possible  as  regards  mounting  it  on  the 
stage,  and  it  was  also  well  cast.  Mr.  Macready  enacted  the  part  of  Norman,  a 
character  corresponding  to  that  of  Vyvyan  in  the  present  play,  and  all  the  other 
parts  were  filled  by  the  best  available  talent  of  the  profession. 

It  was  produced  October  30,  1839,  and  was  received  with  a  very  fair  degree  of  en- 
thusiasm, Mr.  Macready  being  honored  with  a  call  upon  the  occasion.  The  general 
opinion,  however,  was  not  a  very  flattering  one,  and  what  favor  it  did  receive  was 
solely  due  to  his  admirable  acting.  It  was  played  occasionally  afterwards,  but  only 
for  a  brief  period. 

Following  up  the  plan  pursued  with  the  author's  pluvious  plays,  this  one,  as  with 
them,  was  very  soon  transplanted  in  the  United  Stales.  In  the  middle  of  the  fol- 
lowing year,  the  Sea  Captain's  flag  was  hoisted  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic— the 
play  being  produced  at  the  Park  Theatre,  New  York,  on  June  9,  1840,  upon  the  oc- 
casion of  Mr.  Hield's  benefit,  when  the  leading  characters  were  cast  as  follows: — 

Norman Mr.  Cues  wick. 

Lord  Ashdale Mr.  Wheatlby. 

Sir  Maurice  Beevor Mr.  Hi  eld. 

Giles  Gaussen Mr.  Rich  is  gs. 

Lady  Arundel Miss  Cushman. 

Violet Miss  S.  Cushman. 


THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR.  15 

The  above  characters  corresponding  to  those  in  the  present  play  of  Vyvyan,  Lord 
Beaufort,  Sir  Grey  de  Malpas,  Lady  Montreville,  and  Eveline.  But  although,  as  will 
be  seen,  il  had  the  support  of  some  of  the  best  actors  and  actresses  upon  the  stage, 
it  was  very  tamely  received,  and,  I  believe,  never  acted  again. 

As  before  observed,  the  excellent  acting  of  Mr.  Maeready  secured  for  the  piece  a 
short  run,  but  it  was  one  of  such  doubtful  favor  th:it  the  author  withdrew  the  play 
from  the  stage  ( md  even  from  printed  publication)  intending  to  replace  it  before 
the  public  with  some  important  changes  in  the  histrionic  cast,  and  certain  slight 
alterations  in  the  conduct  of  the  story.  But  these  alterations  became  so  extensive 
in  character,  diction,  and  even  in  revision  of  plot,  that  a  new  play  gradually  rose 
from  the  foundations  of  the  old  one.  The  task  thus  undertaken  was  much  delayed 
by  other  demands  upon  the  author's  time  and  thought,  and  it  was  scarcely  com- 
pleted when  Mr.  Macready's  retirement  from  his  profession  suspended  the  author's 
literary  connection  with  the  stage,  and  "The  Rightful  Heir"  remained  in  tranquil 
seclusion  until  18G8.  In  that  year,  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  London,  was  under  the 
management  of  Mr.  E.  T.  Smith,  who  had  for  many  years  previously  been  one  of 
the  most  enterprising  and  successful  managers  of  the  Theatre  Royal,  Drury 
Lane.  Having  secured  the  services  of  Mr.  B:indmann,  an  actor  of  much  excellence 
and  fame,  he  opened  negotiations  with  the  author,  which  resulted  in  the  production 
of  the  piece  on  October  3,  1868.  Mr.  Bandmann  was  supported  by  an  excellent  and 
good  working  company,  including  such  well-known  talented  professionals  as  Mr. 
Herman  Vezin  and  his  wife  (formerly  a  Mrs.  Charles  Young),  Mr.  Neville  (a  most 
panistaking  actor,  who  has  since  risen  to  a  very  high  position  in  London),  and  Mr. 
Basil  Potter,  than  whom  there  were  few  mure  clever  in  high  class  melo-drama,  es- 
pecially of  the  French  school. 

Iu  dio.  not,  however,  have  a  very  successful  career,  and  I  am  not  aware  of  its  being 
played  afterwards  in  England  or  on  the  American  stage. 

One  little  gratifying  incident  in  connection  with  the  piece  may  be  mentioned. 
Upon  its  publication,  the  author  took  the  opportunity  to  make  known  his  good  feel- 
ing towards  the  people  of  the  United  States,  for  the  appreciation  bestowed  upon  his 
previous  productions,  and  at  the  commencement  of  a  brief  preface  he  staled  that 
he  dedicated  the  drama 

"  To  all  friends  and  kinsfolk  in  the  American  Commonwealth,  with  affection  and 
respect." 

As  the  noble  author  observes  that  he  set  to  work  to  alter  "  The  Sea  Captain  "  and 
produced  a  new  play,  so  might  similar  labor  be  bestowed  upon  the  present  piece  with 
a  corresponding  result,  and  by  judicious  alterations  and  curtailment  of  some  of  the 
lengthy  speeches  and  scenes,  with  the  introduction  of  a  few  new  incidents,  there  is 
little  doubt  an  excellent  drama  could  be  produced. 

The  chief  fault  is  that  the  plot  is  too  commonplace  and  of  the  old  melo-dramatic 
type  to  create  any  very  great  interest ;  nevertheless  it  affords  scope  for  some  very 
beautiful  speeches  and,  sentiments;  as  an  artist  would  say,  the  diessy  and  showy 
verbiage  is  hung  upon  a  very  weak  lay  figure. 

The  character  of  Vyvyan  is  very  ably  drawn,  but  his  departure  after  escaping  so 
miraculously  from  death,  and  being  cognizant  of  his  rank  and  birth,  as  also  passion- 
ately in  love,  is  a  very  great  stretch  of  dramatic  license. 

The  character  of  Lady  Montreville  is  also  very  admirably  drawn.  Believing  her 
first-born  dead,  and  gradually  drifting  out  of  a  state  of  remorse  and  suffering  into 
one  of  peace  and  affection  for  her  second  son,  it  is  naturally  a  fearful  struggle  for 
her  to  proclaim  to  the  world  her  shame,  and  to  disinherit  and  cast  forth  as  a  beggar, 
as  it  were,  the  young  noble  who  had  been  reared  with  all  the  care  and  luxury  that 
pride  and  wealth  could  bestow.  The  scene  in  which  this  struggle  is  portrayed  (Act 
1,  Scene  1)  is  a  very  lengthy  one,  but  for  vigorous  and  appropriate  language  of  the 
finest  class,  will  bear  comparison  with  any  of  the  author's  compositions.  So  also  will 
the  first  scene  in  the  Second  Act,  where  Vyvyan,  at  the  request  of  Eveline,  relates 
to  Lady  Montreville  the  story  of  his  early  life.  The  great  fault,  however,  of  both 
these  scenes  is  the  extreme  length  ;  the  idea  and  language  are  unexceptionable. 


16  THE    RIGH1FUL    HEIK. 

Another  fine  piece  of  descriptive  poetry  is  the  imaginary  home  for  a  sailor's  bridei 
which  Vyvyan  pictures  to  Eveline  in  the  Second  Scene  of  the  First  Act,  and  which 
very  much  resembles,  in  idea  and  execution,  a  similar  but  grander  flight  of  poetic 
fancy  in  the  Second  Act  of  the  Lady  01  Lyons. 

The  character  of  Alton,  the  priest,  is  very  neatly  drawn,  and  his  story  of  Vyvy- 
an's  birth  (Act  III,  Scene  1),  couched  in  easy  and  appropriate  language. 

Sir  Grey  de  Malpas,  the  leading  villain  of  the  drama,  is  skillfully  depicted  ;  his 
sarcastic  remarks  upon  the  poverty  he  endures  aud  the  insults  to  which  he  is  sub- 
jected, are  pointedly  given,  and  his  interview  with  Lady  Montreville  and  the  solilo- 
quy upon  his  anticipated  succession  to  rank  and  wealth  are  finely  described. 

Lord  Beaufort,  proud  and  impetuous,  is  also  well  done,  as  is  the  blunt  but  faith- 
ful friend  of  Vyvyan,  Falkner.  Eveline  is  tame  ;  she  is  made,  for  what  reason  one 
fails  to  see,  a  sort  of  melo-dramatic  Ophelia,  with  nothing  of  much  importance  to  do 
or  say. 

Altogether,  however,  the  play  reads  well,  and  though  there  is  the  drawback  of  a 
rather  weak,  improbable,  and  commonplace  plot,  there  is  much  beauty  of  languago 
and  many  telling  points.  J.  m.  k. 


BILL  FOR  PROGRAMMES,  ETC. 

The  events  of  the  Flay  take  place  at,  and  in  the  vicinity  of,  the  Castle  of  Montre- 
ville, on  the  coast  of  England,  in  the  years  1J83-9,  during  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth. 

ACT  I. 

Sck.ne  I.— RUINS   NEAR   THE  CASTLE  OF  MONTREVILLE. 
The  Poor  Cousin — A  Strange  Wreck  from  the  Sea — Arrival  of  Captain 
Vyvyan  on  a  Love  Cruise — The  Secret  of  Birth — The  Hour  to  Solve  the 
Mystery. 

Scene  II.— GARDENS  OF  THE  CASTLE. 
A  Mother's  Love  for  the  Living  and  the  Dead— Eveline's  Sony  of  Woe— In- 
sult to  the  Poor  Cousin — Story  of  the  Missing  Heir  of  Montreville — The 
Proofs  Exist — The  Compact! — Poetry  of  Love,  and  the  Bright  Home 
for  a  Sailor's  Bride — Dismay  of  Lady  Montreville. 

ACT  II. 

Scene  I.— A  ROOM  IN  THE  CASTLE. 
The  Mother  and  her  First-born — Vyvyan's  Vivid  Story  of  His  Life — The 
Plot  to  Destroy  him. 

Scene  II.— THE  CASTLE  YARD. 

Interview  between  Beaufort  and  Vyvyan — The  Sailor  and  the  Gallant — The 
Quarrel — A  Rival  in  Fortune,  Name,  and  Love— A  Hasty  Marriage  and 
a  Quiet  Departure — The  Snake  in  the  Grass — Proclamation  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  against  the  hivasion  by  Spain — The  Call  to  Arms — Prepara- 
tions for  Battle. 


THI2   UIGHTFCIi    UEIE.  .17 

ACT  III. 

Scene  I.— ROCKY  VIEW  ON  THE  COAST. 
The  Priest  Reveals  to  Vyvyan  the  Secret  of  his  Birth—"  The  Proofs?"— 
"  Are  Here  !  " — "  Noio  then  to  Find  and  Claim  a  Mother  !  " 
Scene  II.— EXTERIOR  OF  THE  CASTLE. 
The  Poor  Cousin  and  the  Pirate— The  Schemers  Outwitted— Preparing  for 
Defence — Pride  and  Poverty — The  Challenge! — The  Lord  and  the  Sai- 
lor— "  We  meet  again,  no  Living  Eye  to  see  us  !  " — A  Pirate's  Revenge 
— Plotting  for  Murder. 

ACT   IV. 
Scene   I.— A  ROOM  IN  THE  CASTLE. 

Postponement  of  the  Wedding —  The  Lost  Son — Heart-rending  Appeal  to  a 
Mother — A  Parent's  Agony — Struggle  between  Pride  and  Affection — 
Priceless  Value  of  a  Mother's  Blessing. 
Scene  II.— CLIFFS  AND  ROCKY  PASS  ON  THE  COAST. 

The  Rival  in  Love  and  Fortune — The  Pirate  on  the  Watch — The  Trap  for 

the  Unarmed  Sailor — The  Quarrel — The  Pursuit— Life  on  the  Edge  of 

a  Rock — The  Fatal  Trap  — The  Broken  Bough — Vyvyan  is  hurled  from 

the  Cliff  ! 

Twelve  months  elapse  between  these  Acts. 

ACT  V. 

Scene  I.— CLIFFS  AND  ROCKY  PASS. 
The  Schemer's  Success — The  Poor  Cousin  future  Lord  of  Montr  eville — Vyv- 
yan's  Fate — Suspicion  Points  to  Beaufort  —  The  Search  for  the  Corpse 
— "  Bring  up  but  Bones,  and  Round  the  Skull  Til  Wreath  my  Coronet .'" 
Scene  II.— A  ROOM  IN  THE  CASTLE. 
Beaufort's  Remorse — A  Distressed  Mind  and  a  Mother's   Grief— Dis- 
covery of  Proofs  of  Guilt — The  Summons  to  the  Hall  of  Justice. 
Sckne  III.— THE  GREAT  HALL  IN  THE  CASTLE  OF  MONTRE- 

VILLE. 
The  Court  Assembled — The  Charge  of  the  Poor  Cousin — The  Accusation 
— Proofs  of  Murder — The  Secret  of  Birth  Revealed— The  Suspected 
Fratricide — An  Unlooked-for  and  Mysterious  Visitor— The  Tables 
Turned—"  The  Bones  are  those  of  Wrecklyffe,  the  Intended  Assas- 
sin, and  thou,  Sir  Grey,  the  Schemer  .'"—Confusion  of  Villainy  and 
Triumph  of  Innocence — Unity  of  Mother  and  Brothers— True  Love 
Rewarded — Joyous  Recognition  of  Vyvyan  as 

THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR. 


THE    RIGHTFUL   HEIR. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — Castle  Ruins  in  4th  grooves.     Music. 

Discover  Sir  Gkey,  digging,  up  c,  throivs  down  his  spade  and  comes  down  c 

Sir  Grey.  T  cannot  dig.     Fie,  what  a  helpless  thing 
Is  the  white  hand  of  well-born  poverty  ! 
And  yet  between  this  squalor  and  that  pomp  {looks  up  l.) 
Stand  but  two  lives,  a  woman's  and  a  boy's — 
But  two  frail  lives.     I  may  outlive  them  both.  (r.  c.) 

Enter  Wrecklyffe,  l.  1  e. 

"Wreck.  Ay,  that's  the  house— the  same;  the  master  changed, 

But  less  than  I  am.     Winter  creeps  on  him, 

Lightuiug  hath  stricken  me.     Good-day. 
SlR  G-  Pass  on. 

No  spendrift  hospitable  fool  spreads  here 

The  board  for  strangers.     Pass. 
Wreck.  Have  years  so  dimmed 

Eyes  once  so  keen,  De  Malpas  1 
Sir.  G.  (after  a  pause).  Ha  !     Thy  hand. 

What  brings  thee  hither  1 
Wreck.  «  Brings  me  1  "  say  "  hurled  back." 

First,  yellow  pestilence,  whose  ghastly  wings 

Guard,  like  the  fabled  griffin,  India's  gold  ; 

Unequal  battle  next ;  then  wolfish  famine  ; 

And  lastly  storm  (rough  welcome  to  England) 

Swept  decks  from  stern  to  stem;   to  shoie  was  flung 

A  lonely  pirate  on  a  battered  hulk  ! 

One  wreck  rots  stranded  ;— you  behold  the  other. 
Sir  G.  Penury  hath  still  it's  crust  and  roof-tree— share  them. 

Time  has  dealt  hardly  with  us  both,  since  first 

We  two  made  friendship— thou  straight-limbed,  well-favored, 

Stern-hearted,  disinherited  dare-devil. 

Wreck.  And  thou  1 

Sir  G.  (smiles).  A  stroke  paints  me.     My  lord's  poor  cousin. 

How  strong  thou  wert,  yet  I  could  twist  and  wind  thee 

Kound  these  slight  hands;  that  is  the  use  of  brains 


20  TUB    KIGHTFPL    HEIR. 

Wreck.  Still  jokes  and  stings] 

Sir.  G.  Still  a  poor  cousin's  weapons. 

Wreck.  Boast  brains,  yet  starve  1 

Sir  G.  Still  a  poor  cousin  s  fate,  sir. 

Pardon  my  brains,  since  oft'  thy  boasts  they  pardoned  ; 
(Sad  change  since  then),  when  millers  aped  thy  swagger. 
And  village  maidens  sighed  and,  wondering,  asked 
Why  heaven  made  men  so  wicked — and  so  comely. 

Wreck,  (grteffty).  'Sdeath  !     Will  thuu  cease  ? 

Sir  G.  That  scar  upon  thy 

Front  bespeaks  grim  service. 

Wreck.  In  thy  cause,  l)e  Malpas  ; 

The  boy,  whom  at  thine  instance  1  ailured 
On  board  my  bark,  left  me  this  brand  of  Cain. 

Sir  G.  That  boy— 

Wreck.  Is  now  a  man,  (Sir  Grey  starts)  and  on  these  shores. 

This  morn  I  peered  from  yonder  rocks  that  hid  me, 
And  saw  his  face.     I  whetted  then  this  steel: 
Need'st  thou  his  death  ]     In  me  behold  Revenge ! 

Sir  G.  He  lives — he  lives  !     There  is  a  third  between 
The  beggar  and  the  earldom. 

Wreck,  (looks  n  ).  Steps  and  voices  ; 

When  shall  we  meet  alone  1     Hush  !    it  is  he. 

Sir  G.  He  with  the  plume  1 

Wreck.  Ay. 

Sir  G.  Quick  ;   within. 

Wreck.  And  thou  f 

Sir  G.  I  dig  the  earth  ;  see  the  grave-dialer's  tool,   {goes  tip  v..  c  ) 
[Exit  Wreckylffe,  d   in  3  c,  set  fiat. 

Enter  Harding  end  Sailors,  r.  1  e. 

Hard.  Surely  rtwas  here  the  captain  bade  us  meet  him 

While  he  went  forth  for  news  1 
First  Sailor.  He  comes. 

Enter  Yyyyan.  l.  1  e. 

Hard.  Well,  captnin. 

What  tidings  of  the  Spaniard's  armament  ? 
Vyv.    Bad,  fo-  they  say  the  fighting  is  put  off. 

And  storm  in  Biscay  driven  back  the  Dons. 

This  is  but  rumor — we  will  learn  the  truth. 

Harding,  take  horse  and  bear  these  lines  to  Drake — (gives  paper 

If  yet  our  country  needs  stout  hearts  to  guard  her. 

He'll  not  forjret  the  men  on  board  the  Di  eadnaiight. 

Thou  canst  be  back  ere  sunset  with  his  answer, 

And  find  me  in  von  towers  of  Montreville. 

\Erit  Hakdino.  r.  1  e. 

Meanwhile  make  merrv  in  the  hostel,  lads, 

And  drink  me  out  these  ducats  in  this   toast  :— (gives  coin) 

"  No  foes  be  tall  eno'  to  wa"le  the  moat 

Which  <mds  the  fort  whose  only  walls  are  men 

[Saiiors  cheer,  and  exeunt  r    1  e. 
Vyv.  (c).  I  never  hailed  reprieve  from  war  till  now. 
Henvpn  arant  but  time  to  see  mine  Eveline, 
And  l^arn  mv  birth  from  Alton. 


ACT    I.  21 


Enter  Falkner,  Ii.  1  E. 


p)T,,  Captain,  (meets  Vyyyan,  c.) 

V  y  v  Falkner ! 

So  soon  returned  1     Thy  smile  seems  fresh  from  home. 

All  well  there  1 
pALK  Just,  in  time  to  make  all  well. 

My  poor  old  father  !—  bailitis  at  his  door  ; 

He  tills  another's  land,  and  crops  had  failed. 

I  poured  mine  Indian  gold  into  his  lap, 

And  cried,  "  0  father  wilt  thou  now  forgive^ 

The  son  who  went  to  sea  against  thy  will  I  " 
Vyv.  And  he  forgave.—  N<>w  tell  me  of  thy  mother; 

I  never  knew  one,  but  I  love  to  mark 

The  quiver  of  a  strong  man's  bearded  lip 

When  his  voice  iingers  on  the  name  of  mother. 

Thy  mother  bless'd  thee 

pALK  Yes,  T (falters  and  turns  aside.) 

Pshaw  !  methought 

Her  joy  was  weeping  on  my  breast  again  ! 
Vyv.  I  envy  thee  those  tears. 
FALK  Enough  of  me  ! 

'  Now  for  thvself      What  news  1     Thy  fair  betrothed— 

The  maid  we  rescued  from  the  turband  corsair 

With  her  brave  i'ather  in  die  Indian  seas- 
Found  and  still  faithful  1 
yy v  Faithful  I  will  swear  it ; 

But  not  yet  foui.d.     Her  sire  is  dead— the  stranger 

Sits  at  his  hearth— and  with  her  next  of  kin, 

Hard  by  this  spot— yea,  in  yon  sunlit  towers  (points  up  l.) 

Mine  Eveline  dwells. 
Falk  Thy  foster  father,  Alton, 

Hast  thou  seen  him  1 
Vyv  Not  yet.     My  Falkner,  serve  me. 

His  house  is  scarce  a  two  hours'  journey  hence, 

The  nearest  hamlet  will  afford  a  guide  ; 

Seek  him  and  break  the  news  of  my  return, 

Say  I  shall  see  him  ere  the  day  be  sped. 

And,  hearken,  friend  (good  men  at  home  are  apt 

To  judge  us  sailors  harshly),  tell  him  this— 

On  thenar  seas  his  foster  son  recalled 

Prayers  taught  by  age  to  childhood,  and  implored 

Blessing  on  that  gray  head.  Farewell!  (  Falkner  exits  r.  1  E.) 
Now.  Eveline.  [Exit,  Vyvyan  l.  1  e. 

Sir  G.  (comes  down  l.  c  ).   Thou  seekest  those  towers— go  !  1  will  meet 
thee  there. 

He  must  not  see  the  priest— the  hour  is  come 

Absolving  Alton's  vow  to  guard  the  secret ; 

Since  the  bov  left,  two  :scutcheons  moulder  o'er 

The  dust  of  tombs  from  which  his  rights  ascend ; 

He  must  not  see  the  priest— but  how  loteslall  him  !— 

Within !     For  there  dwells  Want,  Wits  counsellor, 

Harboring  grim  Force,  which  is  Ambition's  tool. 

[Exit  Sir  Grey,  d  m  3  G.  flat 

Drop  Curtain  for  change.     Music  during  watt. 


22  I'HE    RIGHTFUL    HEIB. 

Scene  changes   to 

SCENE  II. — Castle  Gardens  m  5th  grooves. 

Enter,  r.  c  e.,  Lady  Montreville,  by  steps  to  c. 

Lady  M.  Tins  were  his  birthday,  were  he  living  still! 
But  the  wide  ocean  is  his  winding  sheet, 
And   his  grave — here!  (hand to  heart)  I   dreamed  of  him  last 

night. 
Peace!  with  the  dead,  died  shame  and  glozing  slander; 
In  the  son  left  me  still,  1  clasp  a  world 
Of  blossoming  hopes  which  flower  beneath  my  love, 
And  take  frank  beauty  from  the  llatteiing  day. 

And but  my  Clarence — in  his  princely  smile 

How  the  air  brightens. 

Enter  Lord  Beaufort  and  Marsden,  l.  8  E. 

Lord  B.  (to  Marsden).  Yes,  my  gallant  roan, 

And  stay — he  sure  the  falcon,  which  my  lord 

Of  Leicester  sent  me ;  we  will  try  its  metal,  (goes  up  R.  c.) 
Mars.   Your  eyes  do  bless  him,  madam,  so  do  mine  : 

A  gracious  spring ;  Heaven  grant  we  see  its  summer ! 

Forgive,  dear  lady,  your  old  servant's  freedom. 
Lady  M.  Who  loves  him  best,  with  me  ranks  highest.  Marsden. 

[Exit  Marsden.  l.  2  e. 

Clarence,  you  see  me  not. 
Lord  B    (comes  down).  Dear  mother,  welcome,  (r  of  Lady  M. 

Why  do  I  miss  my  soft-eyed  cousin  here  1 
Lady  M.  It  doth  not  please  me,  son,  that  thou  should'st  haunt 

Her  steps,  and  witch  with  dulcet  words  her  ear. 

Eveline  is  fair,  but  not  the  mate  for  Beaufort. 
Lord  B.  Mate!     Awful  word!     Can  youth  not  gaze  on  beauty 

Save  by  the  torch  of  Hymen  1     To  be  gallant, 

Melt  speech  in  sighs,  or  murder  sense  in  sonnets ; 

Veer  with  each  change  in  Fancy's  April  skies, 

And  o'er  each  sun-shower  fling  its  fleeting  rainbow. 

All  this 

Lad?  M.  (gloomily).  Alas,  is  love. 

Lord  B.  No  !     Love's  light  prologue, 

The  sportive  opening  to  the  serious  drama; 

The  pastime  practice  of  Don  Cupid's  bow, 

Against  that  solemn  venture  at  the  butts 

At  which  fools  make  so  many  random  shafts, 

And  rarely  hit  the  white !     Nay,  smile,  my  mother  ; 

How  does  this  plume  become  me  1 
Lady  M.  Foolish  boy  ! 

It  sweeps  too  loosely. 
Lord  B.  Now-a-days,  man's  love 

Is  worn  as  loosely  as  I  wear  this  plume — 

A  glancing  feather  stirred  with  every  wind 

Into  new  shadows  o'er  a  giddy  brain, 

Such  as  your  son's.     Let  the  plume  play,  sweet  mother. 
Lady  M.  Would  I  could  chide  thee  t  (to  r.  c.) 
Lord  B.  Hark,  I  hear  my  steed 


ACT  i.  03 

Neighing  impatience  ;  and  my  falcon  frets 
Noon's  lazy  air  with  lively  silver  bells  ; 
Now,  ma  !am,  look  to  it — no  smile  from  me 
When  next  we  meet. — no  kiss  of  filial  duty, 
Unless  my  fair-faced  cousin  stand  beside  you; 
Blushing  "  Peccavi"  for  all  former  sins — 
Shy  looks,  cold  words,  this  last  unnatural  absence. 
And  taught  how  cousins  should  behave  to  cousins. 

[Exit  Lord  Beaufort,  l.  2  B. 
Lady  M.  Trifler  !     And  yet  the  faults  that  quicker;  fear 

Make  us  more  fond — we  parents  love  to  pardon,  {goes  up  c.) 

Enter  Eveiine,  b.  1  E.,  weaving  flowers — not  seeing  Lady  Montreville, 

Evel.  (singv).  Bud  from  the  blossom, 

And  leaf  from  the  tree,    . 
Guess  why  in  weaving 

I  sing  "  Woe  is  me  !  u  (goes  up  c.  to  wall.) 

Tis  that  I  weave  you 
To  drift  on  the  sea, 
And  say,  when  ye  find  him, 
Who  sang  i:  Woe  is  me  !  " 
{easts  garland  over  wall,  blows  a  kiss,  and  comes  down  c.) 

Lady  M.  A  quaint  but  mournful  rhyme. 

Evel.  You,  madam  ! — pardon! 

Lady  M.  What  tells  the  song  1 

Evel.  A  simple  village  tale 

Of  a  lost  seaman,  and  a  c  azed  girl, 
His  plighted  bride — good  Marsden  knew  her  well, 
And  oft-times  marked  her  singing  on  the  beach, 
Then  launch  her  flowers,  and  smile  upon  the  sea. 
1  know  not  why — both  rhyme  and  tale  do  haunt  me. 

Lady  M.  Sad  thoughts  haunt  not  young  hearts,  thou  senseless  child. 

Evel.  Is  not  the  child  an  orphan  1  (both  at  c,  she  r.  r,f  Lady  M.) 

Lady  M.  In  those  eyes 

Is  there  no  moisture  softer  than  the  tears 
Which  mourn  a  father  1     Roves  thy  glance  for  Beaufort  1 
Vain  girl,  beware  !     The  flattery  of  the  great 
Is  but  the  eagle's  swoop  upon  the  dove, 
And,  in  descent,  destroys 

Evel  Can  you  sp»ak  thus, 

Yet  bid  me  grieve  not  that  I  am  an  orphan  1 

[Exit,  thought f ally.  L.  2  E. 

Lady  M.   (aside).  I  have  high  dreams  for  Beaufort;  bright  desires  ! 
Son  of  a  race  whose  lives  shine  down  on  Time 
From  lofty  tombs,  like  beacon-towers  o'er  ocean, 
He  stands  amidst  the  darkness  of  my  thought, 
Radiant  as  Hope  in  some  lone  captive's  cell. 
Far  from  the  gloom  around,  mine  eyes,  inspired, 
Pierce  to  the  future,  when  these  bones  are  dust, 
And  see  him  loftiest  of  the  lordly  choirs 
Whose  swords  and  coronals  blaze  around  the  throne, 
The  guardian  stars  of  the  imperial  isle — 
Kings  shall  rpvan>  his  mother. 

(seals  h  rself  in  gar  Jen  seat  thoughtfully  ) 


04  THE    EIGHTFUL   HEIE. 


Enter,  r  1  e.,  Sir  Grey,  speaking  to  Servant. 

Sir  G.  What  say'st  thou  1 

Servant  {insolently).  Sir  Grey — ha!  ha! — Lord  Beaufort  craves  your 
pardon, 

He  shot  your  hound — its  bark  disturbed  the  deer. 
Sir  G.  The  only  voice  that  welcomed  me  !     A  dog — 

Grudges  he  that  1  (r.  c.) 
Servant.  Oh,  sir,  'twas  done  in  kindness 

To  you  and  him  ;  the  dog  was  wondrous  lean,  sir  ! 
Sir  G.  I  thank  my  lord  !  [Exit  Servant,  r.  1  e.,  laughing. 

So  my  poor  Tray  is  killed  ! 

And  yet  that  dog  but  barked — can  this  not  bite  1 

{approaches  Lady  Montreville,  vindictively  in  a  whisper.) 

He  lives  ! 
Lady  M.  He !  who  1 

Sir  G.  The  heir  of  Montreville! 

Another,  and  an  eluer  Beaufort,  lives  !  (Lady  M.  rises.) 

{Aside.)  So — the  fang  fixes  fast — good — good  !     (l.  c.  front.) 
Lady  M.  Thou  saidst 

Ten  years  ago — "  Thy  first-born  is  no  more — 

Lied  in  far  seas." 
Sir  G.  So  swore  my  false  informant. 

But  now,  the  deep  that  took  the  harmless  boy 

Casts  from  its  breast  the  bold-eyed  daring  man. 
Lady  M.   Clarence  !     My  poor  proud  Clarence!   (c  ) 
Sir  G.  (l.  c.  front).  Ay,  poor  Clarence  ! 

True  ;  since  his  father,  by  his  former  nuptials, 

Had  other  sons,  if  yon,  too,  own  an  elder, 

Clarence  is  poor,  as  poor  as  his  poor  cousin. 

Ugh !  but  the  air  is  keen,  and  Poverty 

Is  thinly  clad  ;  subject  to  rheums  and  agues,  {shivers) 

Asthma  and  phthisic,  {coughs)  pains  in  the  loins  and  limbs, 

And  leans  upon  a  crutch,  like  your  poor  cousin. 

If  Poverty  begs.  Law  sets  it  in  the  stocks ; 

If  it  is  ill,  the  doctors  mangle  it ;  , 

If  it  is  dying,  the  priests  scold  at  it  ; 

And,  when  'tis  dead,  rich  kinsmen  cry,  "  Thank  heaven !  " 

Ah !  If  the  elder  prove  his  rights,  dear  lady, 

Your  younger  son  will  know  what's  poverty ! 
Lady  M.  Malignant,  peace  !  why  doest  thou  torture  me  1 

The  priest  who  shares  alone  with  us  the  secret 

Hath  sworn  to  guard  it. 
Sir  G.  Only  while  thy  sire 

And  second  lord  survived.     Yet,  what  avails 

In  law  his  tale,  unbacked  by  thy  confession  ? 
Lady  M.  He  hath  proofs,  clear  proofs.     Thrice  woe  to  Clarence  ! 
Sir  G.  Proofs — written  proofs  1 

Lady  M.  Of  marriage,  and  the  birth  ! 

Sir  G.  Wherefore  so  long  was  this  concealed  from  me  ? 
Lady  M.  {haughtily).  Thou  wert  my  father's  agent,  Grey  De  Malpas, 

Not  my  familiar. 
Sir  G.  (  proudly).  Here,  then,  ends  mine  errand,  {going  l.) 

Lady  M.   Stay,  sir — forgive  my  rash  and  eager  temper  ; 

Stay,  stay,  and  counsel  me.     What!  sullen  still! 

Needest  thou  gold  1  befriend,  and  find  me  grateful. 


act  r.  25 

Sir  G.  Lady  of  Montreville,  T  was  once  young, 

And  pined  for  gold,  to  wed  the  maid  I  loved: 
Your  father  said,  "  Poor  cousins  should  not  marry,'1 
And  gave  that  sage  advice  in  lieu  of  gold. 
A  few  years  later,  and  I  grew  ambitions, 
And  longed  for  wars  and  fame,  and  foolish  honors  : 
Then  I  lacked  gold,  to  join  the  knights,  mine  equals, 
As  might  become  a  Malpas,  and  your  kinsman: 
Your  father  said  he  had  need  of  his  poor  cousin 
At  home  to  be  his  huntsman,  and  his  falconer ! 

Lady  M.  Forgetful!     After  my  first  fatal  nuptials 

And  their  sad  fruit,  count  you  as  naught 

Sir  G.  My  hire ! 

For  service  and  for  silence  ;  not  a  gift. 

Lady  M.  And  spent  in  riot,  waste,  and  wild  debauch! 

Sir  G.  True ;  in  the  pauper's  grand  inebriate  wish 

To  know  what  wealth  is, — tho'  but  for  an  hour. 

Lady  M.  But  blame  you  me  or  mine,  if  spendthrift  wassail 
Run  to  the  dregs  1     Mine  halls  stand  open  to  you ; 
My  noble  Beaufort  hath  not  spurned  your  converse ; 
You  have  been  welcomed 

Sir  G.  At  your  second  table, 

And  as  the  butt  of  unchastised  lackeys  ; 
While  your  kind  son,  in  pity  of  my  want, 
Hath  this  day  killed  the  faithful  dog  that  shared  it. 
'Tis  well ;  you  need  my  aid,  as  did  your  father, 
And  tempt,  like  him,  with  gold.     I  take  the  service; 
And,  when  the  task  is  done  will  talk  of  payment. 
Hist !  the  boughs  rustle.     Closer  space  were  safer  ; 
Vouchsafe  your  hand,  let  us  confer  within. 

Lady  M.  Well  might  I  dream  last  night!     A  fearful  dream. 

[Exeunt  Lady  Montreville  and  Sir  Grey,  by  steps,  and  off  v..  2.  B. 
conversing. 

Enter  Eveline,  l.  2  e. 

Evel.  Oh,  for  some  fairy  talisman  to  conjure 

Up  to  these  longing  eyes  the  form  they  pine  for  ! 
And  yet,  in  love,  there's  no  such  word  as  absence  ; 
The  loved  one  glides  beside  our  steps  forever;  (seated  in  garden- 
seat.) 
Its  presence  gave  such  beauty  to  the  world, 
That  all  things  beautiful  its  tokens  are, 
And  aught  in  sound  most  sweet,  to  sight  most  fair, 
Breathes  with  its  voice,  and  haunts  us  with  its  aspect. 

Enter  Vyvyan,  l.  3  e. 

There  spoke  my  fancy,  not  my  heart !     Where  art  thou, 
My  unforgotten  Vyvyan  1 
Vyv.   (kneels  to  her).  At  thy  feet!     (  pauses  and  rises) 

Look  up — look  up ! — these  are  the  arms  that  sheltered 
When  the  storm  howled  around  ;  and  these  the  lips 
Where,  till  this  hour,  the  sad  and  holy  kiss 
Of  parting  lingered,  as  the  fragance  left 
By  angels,  when  they  touch  the  earth  and  vanish. 
Look  up  ;  night  never  hungered  for  the  sun 
As  for  thine  eyes  my  soul ! 


2-&  $HE   ElC*TFUL   TIT.jn. 

Evel.  {embraces  Vyvyan).  Oh !  joy,  joy,  joy  I 

Vyv.    Yet  weeping  still,  tho'  leaning  on  my  breast! 

My  sailor's  bride,  hast  thou  no  voice  but  blushes  1 

Nay  from  those  drooping  roses  let  me  steal 

The  coy  reluctant  sweetne  is  ! 
Evel.  And,  methought 

I  had  treasured  words,  'twould  take  a  life  to  utter 

When  we  should  meet  agaiu ! 
Vyv.  Recall  them  later. 

We  shall  have  time  eno',  when  life  with  life 

Blends  into  one  ; — (Eveline  looks  R.)  why  dost  thou  start  and 
tremble  ? 
Evel.  Methought  I  heard  her  slow  and  solemn  footfall !  (rises.) 
Vyv.    Her  !     Why,  thou  speak'st  of  woman  :  the  meek  word 

Which  never  chimes  with  terror. 
Evel.  You  know  not 

The  dame  of  Montreville.  (c.) 
Vyv.  (r.  of  Eveline).  Is  she  so  stern? 

Evel.  Not  stern,  but  haughty  ;  as  if  high-born  virtue 

Swept  o'er  the  earth  to  scorn  the  faults  it  pardoned. 
Vyv.    Haughty  to  thee  ] 
Evel.  To  all,  e'en  when  the  kindest  ; 

Na} ,  I  do  wrong  her;  never  to  her  son  ; 

And  when  those  proud  eyes  moisten  as  they  hail  him, 

Hearts  lately  stung,  yearn  to  a  heart  so  human  ! 

Alas,  that  parent  love  !  how  in  its  loss 

All  life  seems  shelterless ! 
Vyv.  Like  thee,  perchance, 

Looking  round  earth  for  that  same  parent  shelter, 

1  too  may  find  but  tombs.  So,  turn  we  both, 

Orphans,  to  that  lone  parent  of  the  lonely, 

That  doth  like  Sorrow  ever  upward  gaze 

On  calm  consoling  stars ;  the  mother  Sea., 
Evel.  Call  not  the  cruel  sea  by  that  mild  name. 
Vyv.     She  is  not  cruel  if  her  breast  swell  high 

Against  the  winds  that  thwart  her  loving  aim 

To  link,  by  every  raft  whose  course  she  speeds, 

Man's  common  brotherhood  from  pole  to  pole  ; 

Grant  she  hath  danger — danger  schools  the  brave, 

And  bravery  leaves  all  cruel  things  to  cowards. 

Grant  that  she  harden  us  to  fear,  the  hearts 

Most  proof  to  fear  are  easiest  moved  to  love, 

As  on  the  oak  whose  roots  defy  the  storm, 

All  the  leaves  tremble  when  the  south-wind  stirs. 

Yet  if  the  sea  dismay  thee,  (right  arm  around  Eveline's  waist) 
on  the  shores 

Kissed  by  her  waves,  and  far,  as  fairy  isles 

In  poet  dreams,  from  this  gray  care-worn  world, 

Blooms  many  a  bower  for  the  Sea  Rover's  bride. 

I  know  a  land  where  feathering  palm-trees  shade 

To  delicate  twilight,  suns  benign  as  those 

Whose  dawning  gilded  Eden  ;  Nature,  there, 

Like  a  gay  spendthrift  in  his  flush  of  youth, 

Flings  her  whole  treasure  on  the  lap  of  Time. 

There,  atjeeped  in  roseate  hues,  the  lakelike  sea 

Heaves  to  an  air  whose  breathing  is  ambrosia ; 

And,  all  the  while,  bright-winged  and  warbling  birds, 


ACT  I.  27 

Like  happy  souls  released,  melodious  float 
Thro'  blissful  light,  and  teach  the  ravished  earth 
How  joy  finds  voice  in  Heaven.     Corne,  rest  we  yonder, 
And,  side  by  side,  forget  that  we  are  orphans  ! 

[Vyvyan  and  Eveline  exeunt,  l.  1  e. 

Enter  Lady  Mosttreville  and  Sir  Grey,  r.  2  e.,  and  down  the  steps. 

Lady  M.   Yet  still,  if  Alton  sees 

Sir  G.  Without  the  proofs, 

Why,  Alton's  story  were  but  idle  wind  ; 

The  man  I  send  is  swift  and  strong,  and  ere 

This  Vyvyan  (who  would  have  been  here  before  me 

But  that  I  took  the  shorter  path)  depart 

From  your  own  threshold  to  the  priest's  abode, 

Our  agent  gains  the  solitary  dwelling, 

And 

Lady  M.  But  no  violence  ! 

Sir  G.  Nay,  none  but  fear — 

Fear  will  suffice  to  force  from  trembling  age 

Your  safety,  and  preserve  your  Beaufort's  birthright. 
Lady  M.  Let  me  not  hear  the  ignominious  means  ; 

Gain  thou  the  end  ; — quick — quick  ! 
Sir  G.  Ai;d  if,  meanwhile. 

This  sailor  come,  be  nerved  to  meet  a  stranger  ; 

And  to  detain  a  guest. 
Lady  M.  My  heart  is  wax, 

But  my  will,  iron. — Go.  (r.  c.  by  seat.) 
Sir  G.   {aside.)  To  fear  add  force — 

And  this  hand  closes  on  the  proofs,  and  welds 

That  iron  to  a  tool.  [Exit  Sir  Grey,  r.  I  b. 

Enter  Vyvyan  and  Eveline,  l.  1  E.,  up  to  l.  c. 

Evel.  Nay,  Vyvyan — nay, 

Your  guess  can  fathom  not  how  proud  her  temper. 
Vyv.  Tut  for  her  pride  !   a  king  upon  the  deck 

Is  every  subject's  equal  in  the  hall. 

I  will  advance,    (he  to/covers.) 
Lady  M.    (aside).  Avenging  angels,  spare  me  ! 

(r/reat  emotion,  unable  to  took  at  Vyvyan. J 
Vyv.  Pa-don  the  seeming  boldness  of  my  presence. 
Evel  *  Our  gallant  countryman,  of  whom  my  father 

So  often  spake — who  from  the  Algerine 

Rescued  our  lives  and  freedom. 
Lady  M.  Ah  !     Your  name,  sfr? 

Vvv.  The  name  I  bear  is  Vyvyan,  noble  lady. 
Lady  M.  Sir,  you  are  welcome.     Walk  within,  and  hold 

Our  h oins  your  hostel,  while  it  lists  you. 
Vyv-  Madam, 

I  shall  be  prouder  in  all  after  time 

For  having  been  your  guest. 
Lady  M  How  love  and  dread 


*Lady  M.  Vyvyan.  Eveline. 

e.  ofo.  o.  l.  c. 


28 


THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR. 


Make  tempest  here  !     I  pray  you  follow  me. 

[Exit  Lady  Montrf.yillk,  r.  2  3. 
Vw.    A  most  majestic  lady — her  fair  face 

Made  my  heart  tremble,  and  called  back  old  dreams : 

Thou  saidst  she  had  a  sou  1 
Evel.  Ah,  yes. 

Vy  v.  In  truth 

A  happy  man. 
Evel.  Yet  he  might  envy  thee  : 

Vyv.    Most  arch  reprover,  yes.     As  kings  themselves 

Might  envy  one  whose  arm  entwines  his  all. 

[arm  around  Eveline,  exeunt  B.  2  e.     Music. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Room  in  Id  grooves. 

Discover  Lady  Montreville  and  Vyvyas  seated  at  table,  and  Evelinb 
l.   c. front* 

Vyv.    Ha  !  ha  !     In  truth  we  made  a  scurvy  figure 
A  Iter  our  shipwreck. 

Lady  M.  You  jest  merrily 

On  your  misfortuues. 

Vyv.  'Tis  the  way  with  sailors : 

Still  in  extremes.     Ah  !  I  can  be  sad  sometimes. 

Lady  M.  That   sigh,  in  truth,  speaks  sadness.     Sir,  if  I 
In  aught  could  serve  you,  trust  me. 

Evel.  Trust  her,  Vyvyan. 

Methinks  the  mournful  tale  of  thy  young  years 
Would  raise  thee  up  a  friend,  wherever  pity 
Lives  inlhe  heart  of  woman. 

Vyv.  Gentle  lady, 

The  key  of  some  charmed  music  in  your  voice 
Unlocks  a  haunted  chamber  in  my  soul ; 
And — would  you  listen  to  an  outcast's  tale, 
'Tis  briefly  told.     Until  my  fifteenth  year, 
Beneath  the  roof  of  a  poor  village  priest, 
Not  far  from  hence,  my  childhood  wore  away  ; 
Then  stirred  within  me  restless  thoughts  and  deep; 
Throughout  the  liberal  and  harmonious  nature 
Something  seemed  absent,— what,  I  scarcely  knew, 
Till  one  calm  night,  when  over  slumbering  seas 
Watched  the  still  heaven,  and  down  on  every  wave 
Looked  some  soft  lulling  star— the  instinctive  want 
Learned  what  it  pined  for  ;  and  I  asked  the  priest 
With  a  quick  sigh — "  Why  I  was  motherless  1  " 


Lady  M.* :    table.      :  *Vyvyan. 

*EVELIKE. 


AT.T    II. 


29 


Lady  M.  And  he  1 — 

Vyv.  Replied  that — I  was  nobly  horn, 

And  that  the  cloud  which  dimmed  a  dawning  sun, 
Oft  but  fere  told  its  splendor  at  the  noon. 
As  thus  he  spoke,  faint  memories  struggling  came — 
Faint  as  the  things  some  former  life  hath  known. 
Lady  M.  Of  what  1 

Vyv.  (rises,  keeps  his  eyes  on  Lady  M  ).  A  face  sweet  with  a  stately 
sorrow, 
And  lips  which  breathed  the  words  that  mothers  murmur. 
Lady  M.  (aside).  Back,  tell-tale  tears  !  (weeping.) 
Vyv.  About  that  time,  a  stranger 

Came  to  our  hamlet ;  rough,  yet,  some  said,  well-born  ; 
Roysterer,  and  comrade,  such  as  youth  delights  in. 
Sailor  he  called  himself,  and  naught  belied 
The  sailor's  metal  ringing  in  his  talk 
Of  EI  Dorados,  and  Enchanted  Isles, 
Of  hardy  Raleigh,  and  of  dauntless  Drake, 
And  great  Columbus  with  prophetic  eyes 
Fixed  on  a  dawning  world.     His  legends  fired  me — 
And,  from  the  deep  whose  billows  washed  our  walls, 
The  alluring  wave  called  with  a  Siren's  music. 
And  thus  1  left  my  home  with  that  wild  seaman. 
Lady  M.  The  priest,  consenting,  still  divulged  not  more? 
Vyv.  No  ;  nor  rebuked  mine  ardor.     "  Go,"  he  said, 
"  The  noblest  of  all  nobles  are  the  men 
In  whom  their  country  feels  herself  ennobled.'' 
Lady  M.   (aside).  I  breathe   again,  (aloud)  Well,  thus  you  left  these 

shores 

Vyv.  Scarce  had  the  brisker  sea-wind  filled  our  sails, 
When  the  false  trailor  who  had  lured  my  trust 
Cast  me  to  chains  and  darkness.     Days  went  by, 
At  leng'h — one  belt  of  desolate  waters  round, 
And  on  tl>e  decks  one  scowl  of  swarthy  brows, 
(A  hideous  crew,  the  refuse  of  all  shores) — 
Under  the  flapping  of  his  raven  flag 
The  pirate  stood  revealed,  and  called  his  captive. 
Grimly  he  heard  my  boyish  loud  upbraidings 
And  grimly  smiled  in  answering:  "  I,  like  thee, 
Cast  off,  and  disinherited,  and  desperate, 

Had  but  one  choice,  death  or  the  pirate's  flag 

Choose  thou — I  am  more  gracious  than  thy  kindred  • 
I  proffer  life;  the  gold  they  gave  me  paid 
Thy  grave  in  ocean  !  " 
Lady  M.  Hold  !     The  demon  lied  ! 

Vyv.  Swift,  as  I  answered  so,  his  blade  flashed  forth ; 
But  self-defence  is  swifter  still  than  slaughter  ; 
I  plucked  a  sword  from  one  who  stood  beside  me, 

(gesture  of  parrying  a  thrust  and  replying  by  a  down  cut) 
And  smote  the  slanderer  to  my  feel.     Then  ail 
That  human  hell  broke  loose;  oaths  rang,  steel  lightened; 
When  in  the  death-swoon  of  the  caitiff  chief, 
The  pirate  next  in  rank  forced  back  the  swarm, 
And — in  that  superstition  of  the  sea 
Which  mnkes  the  sole  religion  of  its  outlaws — 
Forbade  my  doom  by  bloodshed — griped  and  bound  me 
To  a  slight  plank ;  spread  to  the  winds  the  sail, 


gfj  THE    RIGHTFUL    II LIK. 

And  left  me  on  the  waves  alone  with  God. 
Evbl.  Pause,  (standing  beside  Vyvyan)  Let  my  hand  lake  thine — feel 
its  warm  life, 

And,  shuddering  less,  thank  Him  whose  eye  was  o'er  thee. 
Vyv.  That  day,  and  all  that  night,  upon  the  seas 

Tossed  the  frail  barrier  between  life  and  death; 

Heaven  lulled  the  gales  ;  and  when  the  stars  came  forth, 

All  looked  so  bland  and  gentle  that  I  wept. 

Recalled  that,  wretch's  words,  and  murmured,  "All, 

E'en  wave  and  wind,  are  kinder  than  my  kindred  !" 

But — nay,  sweet  lady 

Lady  M.  {sobbing).         Heed  me  not.  (with  an  effort)  Night  passed 

Vyv.  Day  dawned  ;  and,  glittering  in  the  sun,  behold 

A  sail — a  tlag  ! 
Evel.  Well— well? 

Vyv.  Like  Hope,  it  vanished! 

Noon  glaring  came — with  noon  came  thirst  and  famine, 

And  with  parched  lips  I  called  on  death,  and  sought 

To  wrench  my  limbs  from  the  still'  cords  that  gnawed 

Into  the  flesh,  and  drop  into  the  deep: 

An  1  then — the  clear  wave   trembled,  and  below 

I  saw  a  dark,  swift-moving,  shapeless  thing, 

With  watchful,  glassy  eyes  ; — the  ghastly  shark 

Swam  hungering  round  its  prey — then  life  once  more 

Grew  sweet,  and  with  a  strained  and  horrent  gaze 

And  lilted  hair  I  floated  on,  till  sense 

Grew  dim.  and  dimmer ;  and  a  terrible  sleep 

(In  which  still — still  those  livid  eyes  met  mine) 

Fell  on  me — and 

Evel.  Quick — quick  ! 

Vyv.  I  woke,  and  heard 

My  native  tongue!     Kind  looks  were  bent  upon  me. 

I  lay  on  deck — escaped  the  ravening  death — 

For  God  had  watciied  the  sleeper. 
Evel.  Oh,  such  memories 

Make  earth,  forever  after,  nearer  heaven  ; 

And  each  new  hour  an  altar  for  thanksgiving. 
Lady  M.  Breaji  not  the  tale  my  ear  yet  strains  to  listen. 
Vyv.     True  lion  of  the  ocean  was  the  chief 

Of  that  good  ship.     Beneath  Ids  fostering  eyes, 

Nor  all  ungraced  by  Drake's  illustrious  praise, 

And  the  frank  clasp  of  Raleigh's  kingly  hand, 

I  fought  my  way  to  manhood.     At  his  death 

The  veteran  left  mo  a  more  absolute  throne 

Than  Csesar  filled — his  war-ship  ;  for  my  reaini 

Add  to  the  ocean,  hope — and  measure  it ! 

Nameless,  I  took  his  name.     My  tale  is  done — 

And  each  past  sorrow,  like  a  wave  on  shore, 

Dies  on  this  golden  hour,  (goes  l.  with  Eveline,  tenderly.) 
Lady  M.  (observing  them).  He  loves  my  ward, 

Whom  Clarence,  too — that  thought  piles  fear  on  fear  j 

Yet,  hold — that  very  rivalship  gives  safety — 

Affords  pretext  to  urge  the  Secret  nuptials, 

And  the  prompt  parting,  ere  he  meet  with  Alton. 

I — but  till  Nature  sobs  itself  to  peace, 

Here's  that  which  chokes  all  reason.     Will  ve  not 


ACT    II.  0, 

ul 

Taste  summer  air,  cooled  through  yon  shadowy  alleys'! 

Anon  I'll  join  you.  [Exu  Lady  Montreville,  r.  1  e. 

Vyv.  We  will  wait  your  leisure. 

A  most  compassionate  and  courteous  lady 

How  could  st  thou  call  her  proud  ? 
EvEL-  Nay,  ever  henceforth, 

For  the  soft  pity  she  has  shown  to  thee, 

I'll  love  her  as  a  mother. 

Vyv#  Thus  I  thank  thee,  {kissing  her  hand.) 

or,pl.Tp  Tr  [Exeunt,  l.  1  e. 

OC.hJN.fcj  II. — Castle  yard,  in  bth  grooves. 

Enter  Sir  Grey  De  Malpas,  l  2  e. 

Lord  B.  (speaking  off  l.  2  e.).  A  noble  falcon  !     Marsden,  hood  him 
gently. 

Enter  Lord  Beaufort,  d.  in  3  g.  set. 

Good-day,  old  knight,  thou  hast  a  lowering  lock, 
As  if  still  ruffled  by  some  dire  affray 
With  lawless  mice,  at  riot  in  thy  larder. 
Sir  G.  Mice  in  my  house  !  magnificent  dreamer,  mice ! 

The  last  was  found  three  years  ago  last  Christmas, 

Stretched  out  beside  a  bone ;  so  lean  and  wo;n 

With  pious  fast — 'twas  piteous  to  behold  it; 

1  canonized  its  corpse  in  spirits  of  wine, 

And  set  it  in  the  porch — a  solemn  warning 

To  its  poor  cousins  !  {aside)  Shall  I  be  avenged  1 

He  killed  my  dog  too. 

Enter  Vyvyan  and  Eveline,  r.  2  e.,  remaining  up  r.  on  platform. 

Lord  B.  (l.  c).  _        Knight,  look   here  !— A  stranger, 

And  whispering  with  my  cousin. 
SirG.  (l.  c. front,  aside).  Jealous  1     Ha! 

Something  should  come  of  this  :     Hail,  green-eyed  fiend  ! 

{nloud)  Let  us  withdraw— tho'  old,  I  have  been  youu"  • 

The  whispered  talk  of  lovers  should  be  sacred. 
Lord  B.  Lovers ! 
Sir  G.  Ah  !  true  !     You  know  not,  in  your  absence 

Your  mother  hath  received  a  welcome  guest 

In  your  fair  cousin's  wooer.     Note  hiniwell, 

A  stalwart,  comely  gallant. 
LoRD  B-  Art  thou  serious  ? 

A  wooer  to  my  cousin— quick,  his  name  ! 
Sir  G.  His  name  1 — my  memory  doth  begin  to  fail  me 

Your  mother  will  recall  it.     Seek — ask  her 

(Vyvyan  and  Eveline  come  down  r.  c.) 
Lord  B.  {to  a).  Whom  have  we  here  1     Familiar  sir,  excuse  me 

I  do  not  see  the  golden  spurs  of  knighthood. 
Vyv.*  Alack,  we  sailors  have  not  so  much  gold 

That  we  should  waste  it  on  our  heels  !     The  steeds 

We  ride  to  battle  need  no  spurs,  Sir  Landsman  ; 


•Eveline.  Vyvyau.  Beaufobt.  Sib  Grey 


32  FEE   RIGHTFUL    HEIR. 

Lord  B.  And  overleap  all  laws  ;   (sneeringly)  raethinks  thou  art 
One  of  those  wild  Sea  Rovers,  who 

Vyv.  {quickly).  Refuse 

To  yield  to  Spain's   proud  tyranny,  her  claim 
To  treat  as  thieves  and  pirates  all  who  cross 
The  line  Spain's  finger  draws  across  God's  ocean. 
We,  the  Sea  Rovers,  on  our  dauntless  decks 
Carry  our  land,  its  language,  laws,  and  freedom; 
We  wrest  from  Spain  the  sceptre  of  the  seas, 
And  in  the  New  World  build   up  a  new  England. 
For  this  high  task,  if  we  fulfill  it  duly, 
The  Old  and  New  World    both  shall  bless  the  names 
Of  Walter  Raleigh  and  his  bold  Sea  Rovers. 

Lord  B.  Of  those  names  thine  is 

Vyv.  Vyvyan. 

Lord  B.  Master  Vyvyan, 

Our  rank  scarce  fits  us  for  a  fair  encounter 
With  the  loud  talk  of-  blustering  mariners. 
We  bar  you  not  our  hospitality  ; 
Our  converse,  yes.     Go  ask  the  Seneschal 
To  lodge  you  with  your  equals  ! 

Vyv.  Equals,  stripling ! 

Mine  equals  truly  should  be  bearded  men, 
Noble  with  titles  carpet  lords  should  bow  to — 
Memories  of  dangers  dared,  and  service  done, 
And  scars  on  bosoms  that  have  bled  for  Enaland  ! 

Sir.  G.  Nay,  coz,  he  has  thee  there,   (restraining  Beaufort  from  drato- 
ing  sword.) 

Thou  sbalt  not,  Clarence. 
Strike  me.     I'm  weak  and  safe — but  he  is  dangerous. 

Enter  Lady  Montrf.ville,  r.  1  e.,  as  Lord  Beaufort  breaks  from  Sir 
Grey  and  draws  his  stvord. 

Evel.  Protect  your  guest  from  your  rash  son. 

Lady  M.  Thy  sword 

Drawn  on  thy (c.)  Back,  boy  !     I  command  thee,  back! 

To  you,  sir  guest,  have  I  in  aught  so  failed, 

That  in  the  son  you  would  lebuke  the  mother? 
Vyv.*  Madam,  believe,  my  sole  offence  was  this, 

That  rated  as  a  serf,  I  spoke  as  man. 
Lady  M.  Wherefore,  Lord  Beaufort,  such  unseemly  humors  1 
Lord  B.  (drawing  her  aside).  Wheiefore  1 — and  while  we  speak   his 
touch  profanes  her ! 

Who  is  this  man  ?     Dost  thou  approve  his  suit  1 

Beware  ! 
Lady  M.  Yon  would  not  threaten Oh,  my  Clarence, 

Hear  me — you 

Lord  B.  Learned  in  childhood  from  my  mother 

To  brook  no  rival — and  to  curb  no  passion. 

Aid'st  thou  yon  scatterling  against  thy  son, 

Where  most  his  heart  is  set1? 
Lady  M.  Thy  heart,  perverse  one  1 

Thou  saidst  it  was  not  love. 

•Eveline.       Vyvyan.       Lady  M.       Beaufort.       Sir  Grey. 

.  R.  R.  C.  C.  L.  C.  L. 


ACT    II. 


33 


Lord  B.  That  was  before 

A  rival  made  it  love — nay,  fear  not  mother, 
If  you  dismiss  this  insolent;  but.  mark  me, 
Dismiss  him  straight,  or  by  mine  honor,  madam, 
Blood  will  be  shed. 
Lady  B.  Thrice  miserable  boy  ! 

Let  the  heavens  hear  thee  not ! 
Loud  B.  (whispering  to  Vyvyan  as  he  crosses  r.)  Again,  and  soon,  sir  ! 

[Exit  h   1  e. 
LidyM.  {seeing    Sir    Grey).  Villain! — but   no.   I  dare   not  yet  up- 
braid  

(aloud)  After  him,  quick  !      Appease,  soothe,  humor  him. 
Sir  G.   Ay,  madam,  trust  to  yoar  poor  cousin.  [Exit  n.  I  e 

Lady  M.    (aside).  Eveline, 

Thou  lov'st  this  Vyvyan  1 
Evel.    (aside).  Lady— I— be  saved 

My  life  and  honor. 
Lady  M.  (aside).  Leave  us,  £entlc  child, 

I  would  confer  with  him.     May  both  be  happy  ! 
Evel.  (Jo  Vyvyan).  Hush!    she  consents;  well  mavst  then  bid  m< 

love  her.  [JErft- Eveline,  l.  1  e. 

Lady  M.  Sir,  if  I  gather  rightly  from  your  speech, 

You  do  not  mean  long  sojourn  on  these  shores'? 
Vyv.    Lady,  in  sooth,  mine  errand  here  was  two-fold. 
First,  to  behold,  and,  if  I  dare  assume 
That  you  will  ratify  her  father's  promise, 
To  claim  my  long  affianced  ;  j.«u  to  learn 
If  Heaven  vouchsafe  me  yet  a  parent's  heart. 
I  gained  these  shores  to  hear  of  war  and  danger — 
The  long-suspended  thunderbolt  of  Spain 
Threatened  the  air.     I  have  dispatched  an  envoy 
To  mine  old  leader,  Drake,  to  crave  sure  tidings; 
I  wait  reply  :  If  England  be  in  peril, 
Hers  ray  first  service  ;  if,  as  rumor  runs, 
The  cloud  already  melts  without  a  storm; 
Then,  ray  bride  gained,  and  my  birth  tracked,  I  sail 
Back  to  the  Indian  seas,  where  wild  adventure 
Fulfills  in  life  what  boyhood  dreamed  in  song. 
Lady  M    'Tis  frankly  spoken'— frankly  I  reply. 

First — England's  danger;  row.  for  five  slow  years 
Have  Spain's  dull  trumpets  blared  their  braggart  war, 
And  Rome's  gray  mor.k  craft  muttered  new  crusades; 
Wed,  we  live  still— and  all  this  delude  dies 
In  harmless  spray  ou  Enijland  s  scornful  cliffs. 
And,  trust  rae    sir,  if   war  beleaguer  England, 
Small  need  of  ona  man'.*  valor  :  lacked  sha  soldiers, 
Methink3  a  Mars  would  strike  in  childhood's  arm, 
And  woman  bo  Beilona  ! 
Vyv.  Stately  matron, 

So  would  our  mother  country  speak  and  look, 
Could  she  take  visible  image  ! 
Lady  M.  Claim  thy  bride 

With  ray  assent,  and  joyous  grauilalion. 
She  shall  not  go  undowried  to  your  arms. 
Nor  deem  me  wanting  to  herself  and  yon 
If  I  adjure  prompt  nuptials  and  departure. 
Beaufort — thou  see'st  how  fiery  is  his  mood— 


vj.  UIIE    UlGitXi' UL    I1EIK. 

In  my  ward's  lover  would  avenge  a  rival  : 

Indulge  the  impatient  terrors  of  a  mother, 

And  quit  these  shores.     Whv  not  this  night  1 
Vyv.  This  night  1 

With  her— my  bride  1 
Lady  M.  So  from  the  nuptial  altar 

Pledge  thou  thy  faith  to  part — to  spread  the  sail 

And  put  wide  seas  between  my  son  and  thee. 
Vyv.    This  night,  with  Eveline! — dream  of  rapture!  {changes  look  from 
joy  lo  pain)  yet — 

My  birth  untracked — 
Lady  M.  Delay  not  for  a  doubt 

Bliss  when  assured      And,  heed  me,  I  have  wealth 

To  sharpen  law.  and  power  to  strengthen  justice; 

I  will  explore  the  mazes  of  this  mystery  ; 

I— I  will  track  your  parents. 
Vyv.  Blessed  lady ; 

My  parents  ! — Find  me  one  with  eyes  like  thine, 

(Lady  M.  starts  } 

And  we  e  she  lowliesl  of  the  hamlet  born, 

I  would  not  change  with  monarchs. 
Lady  M.  (csid,  ).  Can  I  hear  this  1 

(aloud)  Your  Eveline  well  nigh  is  my  daughter;  you 

Her  plighted  spouse  ;  pray  you  this  kiss— (>   sweet! 

(  Vyvyas  smlcn  on  one  hici  as  Lady  M.  /asses  his  forehead.) 
Vyv.    Ah.  as  I  kneel,  and  as  thou  bendest  o'ei  me, 

Methinks  nn  angel's  hand  lifts  up  the  veil 

Of  Time,  the  great  magician   and  I  see 

Above  mine  infant  couch   a  face  like  thine. 
Lady  M.   Mine,  stranger! 
Vyv.    {rising').  Pardon  me  ;  a  vain  wild  thought 

T  know  it  is  ;  but  on  my  faith,  I  think 

My  mother  was  like  thee. 
Lady  M.  Peace,  peace  !     We  talk 

And  fool  grave  hours  away.     Inform  thy  bride  ; 

Then  to  thy  bark,  and  bid  thy  crew  prepare; 

Meanwhile,  I  give  due  orders  to  my  chaplain. 

Beside  the  altar  we  shall  meet  once  more  , — 
(voice  breaks)  And  then — and  then — Heaven's  blessing  and  farewe'l ! 
[Rnt  Lady  Moxtreville,  l.  1  e.,  wildig. 
Vyv.    Most  feeling  heart !  its  softness  hath  contagion. 

And  melts  mine  own  !     Her  aspect  wears  a  charm 

That  half  divides  my  soul  with  Eveline's  love! 

Strange .'  while  1  muse,  a  chill  and  ominous  awe 

Creeps  thro'  my  veins!     Away,  ye  vague  forebodings  I 

Eveline  !     At  thy  dear  name  the  phantoms  vanish, 

And  the  glad  future  breaks  like  land  on  sea, 

When  rain-mists  melt  beneath  the  golden  morn. 

Enter,  d.  hi  3  g.  set,  Falkner. 

Falk.  Ha !  Vyvyan  ! 

Yyv.  Thou! 

Talk.  Breathless  with  speed  to  teach  thee, 

1  guessed  thee  lingering  here.     Thy  ioster  sire 
Hath  proofs  that  clear  the  shadow  from  thy  birth.. 
Go — he  awaits  thee  where  yon  cioud-capt  rock 


act  ii.  35 

Jags  air  with  barbed  peaks — St.  Kinian's  Cliff. 

[Shouts  off  l.,  faintly. 
Vtv.  My  birth  !     My  parents  live  ? 
Falk.  I  know  no  more. 

Enter,  d.  in  3  g.  set,  Harding. 

Hard.  Captain,  the  rumor  lied.     I  bring  such  news 

As  drums  and  clarions  and  resounding  anvils 

Fashioning  the  scythes  of  reapers  into  swords, 

Shall  ring°froiu  Thames  to  Tweed. 
yyv  The  foeman  comes  ! 

Hard,   {gives  letter).   These  lines  will  tell  thee  ;  Drake's  own  hand. 

[Goes  up  l.  c- 
Vyv.  (reads).  "The  Armada 

Has  left  the  Groyne,  and  we  are  ranging  battle. 

Come  !  in  the  van  I  leave  one  gap  for  thee/' 

Poor  Eveline  '     Shame  on  such  unworthy  weakness  ! 
Falk.  Time  to  see  her  and  keep  thy  tryst  with  Alton 

Leave  me  to  call  the  crews  and  arm  the  decks. 

Not  till  the  moon  rise,  in  the  second  hour 

After  the  sunset,  will  the  depponing  tide 

Floa'  us  from  harbor — ere  that  hour  be  past 

Our  ship  'hall  wait  then  by  St.  Kinian's  CI  ff. 

Small  need. to  pray  thee  not  to  miss*  the  moment 

Whose  loss  would  lose  thee  honor. 
Vvv.  Tf  I  come  not 

Ere  the  waves  reel  to  thv  third  signal  gun. 

Deem  Death  alone  could  so  delay  from  duty. 

And  step  into  mv  post  as  o'er  my  corpse. 
Falk.  Justly,  my  captain   thou  relink1  st  my  warning. 

And  couldst  thou  fail  us,  1  would  hold  the  signal 

As  if  thy  funeral  knell — crowd  every  sad, 

And  know  thy  soul 

Vvv.  Was  with  my  country  still,  (shouts  off  J..) 

Enter,  d.  tn  3  g.  set,  Sub-officer,  Sailors,  Retainers,  and  Villagers 
confusedly. 

Sub-officer  (with  broadsheet).  Captain,  look  here.     Just  come! 
Vtv.  The  Queen's  Address 

From  her  own  lips  to  the  armed  lines  at  Tilbury. 
Voices.  Read  it  sir.  read  it — 
Vtv,  Hush  then,  (reads)  "  Loving  people, 

Let  tyrants  fear  !     I,  under  Heaven,  have  placed 

In  loyal  hearts  my  chiefest  strength  and  safeguard, 

Beii  g  resolved  in  the  midst  and  heat  of  the  battle 

To  live  and  die  amongst  you  all ,  content 

To  lay  down  for  my  God  and  tor  my  people 

My  life  blood  even  in  die  dust :  I  know 

I  iiave  the  body  of  a  feeble  woman. 

Bui  a  King  a  heart  a  King  of  England's  too  ; 

Aid  think  loul  scorn  that  Parma,  Spain,  or  Europe, 

Dare  lo  invade  the  borders  of  my  realm  ! 

Where  England  fights— with  concord  in  the  camp, 

Trust  in  the  chief,  and  valor  m  the  field, 


Ill  THE    KIGHTFUL    IIEIE. 

Swift  be  her  victory  over  every  foe 

Threatening  her  crown,  her  altars,  and  her  people.'' 

The  noble  Woman  King  !     These  words  of  fire 

Will  send  warm    blood  through  all  the  veins  of  Freedom 

Till  England  is  a  dream  !     Uncover,  lads  ! 

God  and  St.  George  !     Hurrah  for  England's  Queen  ! 

{Cheers,  all  cheer.} 

Villagers.     ******    Villagers. 
Falkner.*        *Vyvyan.    *  Harding. 

quick  curtain. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — Rocky  Landscape  in  Id  grooves. 

Discover  Alton  and  Vyvyan,  seated  c,  on  low  rocks. 

Alton.   And  I  believed  rhem  when  they  said  "  Ho  died 
Tn  the  far  seas."     Ten  years  of  desolate  sorrow 
Passed  as  one  night — Now  thy  warm  hand  awakes  me. 

Vyv.   Dear  friend,  the  sun  sets  fast. 

Ai.i')N.  Alas!  then  listen. 

There  was  a  page,   fair,  gentle,  brave,  but  low-born — 

And  in  those  years   when,  to  young  eyes  the  world, 

With  all  the  rough  disparities  of  fortune, 

Floats  level  thro'   the  morning  haze  of  fancy, 

He  loved  the  heiress  of  a  lordly  house  : 

She  scarce  from  childhood,  listening,  loved  ajiain, 

And  secret  nuptials  hallowed  stolen  meetings — 

'Till  oue — I  know  not  whom  (perchance  a  kinsman, 

Heir  to  that  house — if  childless  died  its  daughter) 

Spied — tracked  the  bridegroom  to  the  bridal  bower, 

Aroused  the  sire,  and  said,    "Thy  child's  dishonored!  " 

Snatching  his  sword,  the  father  sought  the  chamber  ; 

Burst  the  closed  portal — but  his  lifted  hand 

Escaped  the  crim  \      Cold  as  a  fallen  statue, 

Cast  from  its  blessed  pedestal  forever, 

The  bride  lay  senseless  on  the  lonely  floor 

By  the  ope'd  casement,  from  whose  terrible  height 

The  generous  boy,  to  save  her  life  or  honor, 

Had  plunged  into  his  own  sure  death  below. 

Vyv.    A  happy  death,  if  it  saved  her  he  loved  ! 

Alton.  A  midnight  grave  concealed  the  mangled  clay, 
And  buried  the  bride's  secret.     Few  nights  after, 
Darkly  as  life  from  him  had  passed  away, 
Life  dawned  on  thee — and,  from  the  unconscious  mother, 
Stern  hands  conveyed  the  pledge  of  fatal  nuptials 
To  the  poor  priest,  who  to  thy  loftier  kindred 
Owed  the  mean  roof  that  sheltered  thee. 


ACT  Ui. 

Vtv.  01),  say 

I  have  a  mother  still  ! 
Alton  Yes  ! 

Vtv.  (with  joy).  Oh  ! 

Alton.  She  survived — 

Her  vows,  thy  birth,  by  the  blind  world  ungues^ed; 
And,  after  years  of  woe  and  vain  resistance, 
Forced  to  a  lordlier  husband's  arms. 

Vyv.  "  My  soul 

Ofttimes  recalls  a  shadowy  mournfulness, 
With  woman's  patient  brow,  and  saddest  tears 
Dropped  fast  from  woman's  eyes  ; — they  were  my  mother's. 

Alton.  In  stealth  a  wife — in  stealth  a  mother !  yes, 
Then  did  she  love  thee,  then  aspired  to  own 
In  coming  times,  and  bade  me  hoard  these  proofs 
For  that  blest  day."     Alas  !  new  ties 
Brought  new  affections — to  the  secon  1  nuptials 
A  second  son  was  born ;  she  loved  him  better, 
Better  than  thee — than  her  own  soul ! 

Vyv.  Poor  mother ! 

Alton.  And  haughtier  thoughts  on  riper  life  arose, 

And  worldly  greatness  feared  the  world's  dread  shame. 

And  she  forsook  her  visits  to  thy  pillow, 

And  the  sire  threatened,  and  the  kinsman  prayed, 

Till,  over-urged  by  terror  for  thy  safety, 

1  took  reluctant  vows  to  mask  the  truth 

And  hush  thy  rights  while  lived  thy  mother's  sire 

And  he,  her  second  unsuspecting  lord. 

Thus  thy  youth,  nameless,  left  my  lonely  roof 

The  sire  and  husband  died  while  thou  wert  absent. 

Thou  liv'st — thou  hast  returned  ;  mine  oath  is  freed; 

These  scrolls  attest  my  taie  and  prove  thy  birthright — 

Hail,  Lord  of  Beaufort — Heir  of  Montreville! 

Vtv.  'Tis  she — 'tis  she  !     At  the  first  glance  I  loved  her  ! 
And  when  I  told  my  woes,  she  wept — she  wept ! 
This  is  her  writing.     Look — look  where  she  calls  me 
':  Edmond  and  child."     Old  man,  how  thou  hast  wronged  her 
Joy — joy  !     I  fly  to  claim  and  find  a  mother  ! 

[Exit  Vtvyan,  l.  1  e. 

Alton.  Just  power,  propitiate  Nature  to  that  cry. 

"And  from  the  hardened  rock,  let  living  streams 
Gush  as  in  Horeb  !     Ah,  how  faintly  Hags, 
Strained  by  unwonted  action,  weary  age  ! 
I'll  seek  the  neighboring  hamlet — rest  and  pray." 

[Exit  Alton,  r.  1  b. 

SCENE  II.— Castle  Exterior  as  in  Scene  II,  Act  II.     Sunset. 

Enter  Sir  Gret  and  Wrecklyffe.  d.  in  3  g.  flat. 

Sir  G.    The  priest  has  left  his  home  1 

Wreck.  The  hour  I  reached  it. 

Sir  G.   With  but  one  man  7     Did'st  thou  not  hound  the  foot-track  s 

Wreck.  I  did. 

Sir  G  Thou  didst— and  yet  the  prey  escaped  ! 

I  have  done.     1  gavsj  Ihee  thy  soul's  wish,  lovenge, 
Revenge  on  Vyvyati — and  thou  leav'st  his  way 


38  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR. 

Clear  to  a  heighf  as  high  from  thy  revenue 

As  is  yon  watch-tower  from  a  pirate's  gibbet. 

Wreck    Silence!   thou 

Sir.  G    {haughtily).         Sir! 

Wreck    (subdued  and  cowed).  Along  the  moors  I  track'd  them. 

But  only  came  in  sight  and  reach  of  spring 

Just  as  they  gained  the  broad  and  thronging  road, 

Aloud  with  eager  strides,  and  clamorous  voices — 

A  surge  of  t-umult,  wave  to  wave  re  booming 

How  all  the  mi^ht  of  Parma  and  of  Spain 

Hurried  its  thunders  on.  {gas  gradually  down  during  this  scene.) 
SIR  G.  bu\t,  what  to  us 

Parma  and  Spain  7     The  beggar  has  do  country  ! 
Wreck.  But  deeds  like  that  which  thou  dost  urge  me  to 

Are  not  risked  madly  in  the  populous  day. 

T  come  to  thy  sharp  wit  for  safer   orders. 
Silt  G.  My  wit  is  dulled  by  time,  and  must  be  ground 

Into  an  edge  by  thought.      Hist  ! — the  door  jars, 

She  comes.     Skulk  yonder — hide  thee — but  in  call ! 

A  moment  sometimes  makes  or  rnarreth  fortune, 

Just  as  the  fiend   Occasion  springs  to  hand — 

Be  thou  that  fiend  !  [Wrecklyffe  exits  up  r.  c. 

Enter  Lady  Montreville,  l.  1  e. 

Lady  M.  Look  on  me  '     What,  nor  tremble? 

Couldst  thou  have  deemed  my  father's  gold  a  bribe 

For  my  son's  murder]     Sold  to   pirates  !  Cast 

On  the  wild  seas  ! 
Sik  G.  How  !     I  knew  naught  of  this. 

If  such  the  truth,  peace  to  thy  father's  sins, 

For  of  those  sins  is  this.     Let  the   pasl  sleep, 

Meet  present  ills — the  priest  hath    left  his  home 

With  Vyvyan's  comrade,  and  our  scheme  is  foiled. 
Lady  M.  I  will,  myself,  see  Alton    on  the  morrow — 

Edmond  can  scarce  forestall  me:  for  this  night 

Fear  sails  with  him  to  the  far  Indian  main. 
Sir  G.  Let  me  do  homage  to  thy  genius.      Sorceress, 

What  was  thy  magic  1 
Lady  M.  Terror  for  my  Cla'ence, 

And  Edmond's  love  for  Eveline. 
Sir  G.  {aside).  I  see  ! 

Bribed  by  the  prize  of  which  she  robs  his  rival ! 

This  night — so  soon  ? — this  night — 
Lady  M.  I  save  n1^'  ClareDce  \ 

Till  then,  keep  close,  close  to  his  side.    Thou  hast  soothed  him  1 
Sir  G.  Fear  not — these  sudden  tidings  o.f  the  foe 

With  larger  fires  have  paled  receding  love — 

But  where  is  Vyvyan  1 
Lady  M.  Doubtless  with  his  crew, 

Preparing  for  departure. 
Lord  B.  {without).  This  way,  Marsden. 

Enter,  l.  2  e.,  Lord  Beaufort  with  Marsden  and  armed  Attendants. 

Lord  B     [to  R  !    Rennir  yon  broken  parapets  at  dawn  ; 
Yonder  the  culverins  .—delve  down  more  sharply 


ACT  III.  39 

That  bank  ; — clear  out  the  moat.     Those  trees — eh — Marsden, 
Should  fall  1     They'd  serve  to  screen  the  foe !  {comes  to  c.)  Ah, 
mother, 

Make  me  a  scarf  to  wear  above  the  armor 

In  which  thy  father,  'mid  the  shouts  of  kings, 

Shivered  French  lances  at  the  Cloth  of  Gold. 
Mars.  Nay,  my  young  lord,  too  vast  for  you  that  armor. 
Lord  B.   No  ;   you  forget  that  the  breast  swells  in  danger, 

And  honor  adds  a  cubit  to  the  stature. 
Lady  M.   Embrace  me,  Clarence,  I  myself  will  arm  thee. 

Look  at  him,  Marsden — yet  they  say  I  spoil  him  ! 
Sir  G.  (draws  Lady  M.  to  l.  c,  and  whispers).  I  mark  P  the  distance 
swift  disordered  strides, 

And  the  light  bound  of  an  impatient  spirit; 

Vyvyan  speeds  hither,  and  the  speed  seems  joy. 

He  sought  his  crew — Alton  might  there  await  hiin. 
Lady  M*  His  speed  is  to  a  bride. 
Sir  G.  Ay,  true — old  age 

Forgets  that  Love's  as  eager  as  Ambition  j 

Yet  hold  thyself  prepared. 
Lady  M.  (to  herself.)  And  if  it  were  so  ! 

Come,  I  will  sound  the  depths  of  Beaufort's  heart ! 

And,  as  that  answers,  hush  or  yield  to  conscience. 

Lead  off  these  men. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Grey  and  Attendants,  d.  in  3  G.  fiat. 

(to  Marsden)  Go,  meet  my  this  day's  guest, 

And  see  he  enter  through  the  garden  postern. 

[Exit  Marsden,  l.  1  b. 

Clarence,  come  back. 
Lord  B.   (peevishly.)  What  now  1  (r.) 
Lady  M.  Speak  kindly,  Clarence. 

Alas,  thou'lt  know  not  till  the  grave  close  o'er  me, 

How  I  did  need  thy  kindness  ! 
Lord  B.  Pardon,  mother, 

My  blunt  speech  now,  and  froward  heat  this  morning. 
Lady  M.  Be  all  such  follies  of  the  past,  as  leaves 

Shed  from  the  petals  of  the  bursting  flower. 

Think  thy  soul  slept,  till  honor's  sudden  dawn 

Flashed,  and  the  soil  bloomed  with  one  hero  more  ! 

Ah,  Clarence,  had  I,  too,  an  elder-born, 

As  had  thy  father  by  his  former  nuptials ! — 

Could  thy  sword  carve  out  fortune  7 
Lord  B.  Ay,  my  mother ! 

Lady  M.  "  Well  tho  bold  answer  rushes  from  thy  lips  !  " 

Yet,  tell  me  frankly,  dost  thou  not,  in  truth, 

Prize  over  much  the  outward  show  of  things ; 

And  couldst  thou — rich  with  valor,  health  and  beauty, 

And  hope — the  priceless  treasure  of  the  young — 

Couldst  thou  endure  descent  from  that  vain  height 

Where  pride  builds  towers  the  heart  inhabits  not ; 

To  live  less  gorgeously,  and  curb  thy  wants 

Within  the  state,  not  of  tin'  heir  to  earls, 

But  of  a  simple  gentleman  1 
Lord  B.  If  reared  to  it, 

Perchance  contented  so  ;  but  now — no,  never ! 

Such  as  I  am,  thy  lofty  self  hath  made  me ; 

Ambitious,  haughty,  prodigal  ;  and  pomp 


40  'JUL,    RiUa'iJfO'L    UKIli. 

A  part  of  my  very  life.     If  I  could  fall 

From  my  liigh  state,  it  were  as  Romans  fell, 

On  their  swords'  point! 
Lady  M.  (in  horror).  Jh  ! 

Lord  B.  Why  is  your  cheek  so  hueless  ? 

Why  daunt  yourself  with  airiest  fantasies  1 

Who  can  deprive  me  of  mine  heritage — 

"  The  titles  borne  at  Palestine  and  Crecy  1 

The  seignory,  ancient  as  the  throne  it  guards," 

That  will  be  mine  in  trust  for  sons  unborn, 

When  time — from  this  day  may  the  date  be  far  ! — 

Transfers  the  circlet  on  thy  stately  brows 

(Forgive  the  boast ')  to  no  unwoithy  heir. 
Lady  M.  (aside).  My  proud  soul  speaks  in  his,  and  stills  remorse  ; 

I'll  know  no  other  son  !     {aloud)   Now  u<>.  Lord  Beaufort. 
Lord  B.  So  formal — fie! — has  Clarence  then  offended  1 
Lady  M.  Offended  ? — thou  '     Resume  thy  noble  duties, 

Sole  heir  of  Montreville  !  [Exit  Lord  Bkaufokt,  l.  2  e. 

My  choice  is  made. 

As  one  who  holds  a  fortress  for  his  king, 

I  guard  this  heart  for  Clarence,  and  I  close 

Its  gates  against  the  stranger.     Let  him  come. 

[Exit,  L.  1.  E. 

Enter,  d.  in  3  G.flat,  "Vyvyan  and  Eveline. 

Evel.  I  would  not  bid  thee  stay,  thy  country  calls  thee — 

But  thou  hast  stunned  my  heart  i'  the  midst  of  joy 

With  this  dread  sudden  word — part — part ! 
Vyv.  Live  not 

In  the  brief  present.     Go  forth  to  the  fu  ure  ! 

Wouldst  thou  not  see  me  worthier  of  thy  love  1 
Evel.  Thou  canst  not  be  so. 
Vyv.  Sweet  one,  I  am  now 

Obscure  and  nameless.     What  if  at  thy  feet 

I  could  lay  rank  and  fortuue  1 
Evel.  These  could  give 

To  me  no  bliss  save  as  they  bless  thyself. 

Into  the  life  of  him  she  loves,  the  life 

Of  woman  flows,  and  nevermore  reflects 

Sunshine  or  shadow  on  a  separate  wave. 

Be  his  lot  great,  for  his  sake  she  loves  greatness  ; 

Humble — a  cot  with  him  is  Arcady  ! 

Thou  art  ambitious  ;  thou  wouldst  arm  for  fame, 

Fame  then  fires  me  too,  and  without  a  tear 

I  bid  thee  go  where  fame  is  won — as  now  : 

Win  it  and  I  rejoice  ;  but  fail  to  win, 

Were  it  not  joy  to  think  I  could  console  1 
Vyv.   Oh,  that  I  could  give  vent  to  this  full  heart ! 

Time  rushes  on,  each  glimmering  star  rebukes  me — 

Is  that  the  Countess  yonder  1     This  way — come,  (up  c.) 

[31oonlight  falls  on  l.  side  now. 

Enter  Lord  Beaufort  and  Sir  Grey,  l.  1  e. 

Lord  B    Leave  England,  say'st  thou — and  with  her  1 

Sir  G.  Thou  hast  wrung 


act  nr.  41 

The  secret  from  me.     Mark — I  have  thy  promise 

Not  to  betray  me  u>  thy  mother. 
Lord  B.  Ah ! 

Thought  she  to  dupe  me  with  that  pomp  of  words, 

And  blind  ambition  while  she  beggar'd  life  1 

No,  by  yon  heavens,  she  shall  not  so  befool  me  ! 
Sib  G.  Be  patient.     Had  I  guessed  how  this  had  galled, 

I  had  been  dumb. 
Lord  B.  Stand  from  the  light !     Distraction ! 

She  hangs  upon   his  breast !  (/tarries  to  Vyvyan,  and  then  un- 
covering with  an  attempt  at  courtesy,  draivs  him  to  front  ) 
Lord  B.  Sir,  one  word  with  you. 

This  day  such  looks  and  converse  passed  between  us 

As  men  who  wear  these  vouchers  for  esteem, 

Cancel  with  deeds. 
Vyv.  (aside).  The  brave  boy  !     How  I  love  him  ! 

Lord  B.  What  saidst  thou,  sir  1 
Evel.  (approaching).  Oh,  Clarence. 

Lord  B.  Fear  not,  cousin. 

I  do  but  make  excuses  for  my  i  udeness 

At  noon,  to  this  fair  cavalier. 
Sir  G.  If  so, 

Let  us  not  mar  such  courteous  purpose,  lady. 
Evel.  But — 

Sir  G.  Nay,  you  are  too  timid  !   (draws  Eveline  up  l  ) 

Lord  B.  Be  we  brief,  sir. 

You  quit  these  parts  to-night.     This  place  beseems  not 

The  only  conference  we  should  hold.     I  pray  you 

Name  spot  and  hour  in  which  to  meet  again, 

Unwitnessed  save  by  the  broad  early  moon. 
Vyv.  Meet  thee  again — oh,  yes  ! 
Lord  B.  There  speaks  a  soldier, 

And  now  I  own  an  equal.     Hour  and  place  1 

Vyv.  Wait  here  till  I  have 

Lord  B.  No,  sir,  on  thy  road. 

Here  we  are  spied. 
Vyv.  So  bj  it,  on  my  road. 

(aside)  [There  where  I  learned  that  heaven  had  given  a  brother, 

There  the  embrace.]     Within  the  hour  I  pass 

St.  Kinian's  Cliff. 
Lord  B.  Alone  1 

Vyv.  Alone. 

Lord  B.  Farewell! 
Sir.  G.  (catchmg   at   Lord   Beaufort    as  he  goes   out.)  I   heard  St 

Kinian's  Cliff.     I'll  warn  the  Countess. 
Lord  B.  Do  it,  and  famish  ! 

Sir  G.  Well,  thy  fence  is  skillful. 

Lord  B.  And  my  hand  firm. 
SirG.  But  when  ? 

Lord  B.  Within  the  hour  \ 

[Exit  Lord  Beaufort,  l.  1  e. 
Evel.  I  do  conjure  thee  on  thine  honor,  Vyvyan, 

Hath  he  not — 
Vyv.  What?  (r.  c.) 

Evel.  Forced  quarrel  on  thee  1  (c.) 

Vyv.  Quarrel 

That  were  beyond  his  power.     Upon  mine  honor, 

No,  and  thrice  no  ' 


42  THE    IUGI1TFUL    HEIB. 

Evel.  I  scarce  dare  yet  believe  thee. 

Vyv.  Why  then,  I  thus  defy  thee  still  to  tremble. 

Away  this   weapon,   {throwing  sword  off  it.  1  e.)  If  I  meet  thy 
cousin, 

Both  mast  b;>  safe,  for  one  will  be  unarmed. 
Evel.  Mine  own  frank  hero-lover,  pardon  me  ; 

Yet  need'st  thou  noL 

Vyv.  Oh,  as  against  the  Spaniard, 

There  will  be  swoids  enow  in  Vyvyan's  war-ship — 

But  art  thou  sure  his  heart  is  touched  so  lightly  1 
Evel.  Jealous,  and  now  ! 
Vyv.  No,  the  fair  boy,  'lis  pity! 

Enter  Maksden,  l  2  e., 

Mars.*  My  lady,  sir,  invites  you  to  her  presence; 

Pray  you  this  way. 
Evel.  Remember — 0,  remember, 

One  word  again,  before  we  part;  but  one! 
Vyv.    One  word.     Heaven  make  it  joyous. 
Evel.  Joyous! 

Vyv.    Soft,  let  me  take  that  echo  from  thy  lips 

As  a  «ood  omen.      How  my  loud  heart  beats!  (aside.') 

Friend,  to  your  lady     [Exeunt  Vyvyan  and  Maksden,  l.  1  e. 
Evel.  Gone  !     The  twilight  world 

Hath  its  stars  still — but  mine  !  Ah,  woe  is  me ! 

[Exit  Eveline,  l.  1  e. 
Sir  G.  Why  take  the  challenge,  yet  cast  off  the  weapon  i 

Perchance,  if,  gentle,  lie  forbears  the  boy  ; 

"  Perchance,  if  worldly  wise,  he  fears  the  noble  ; 

Or  hath  he,  in  his  absence,  chanced  with  Alton  1 

It  matters  not.     Like  some  dark  necromancer, 

I  raise  the  storm,  then  rule  it  thro'  the  fiend! 

Where  waits  this  man  without  a  hope  1 
Wreck,  (coming  down  c).  Save  vengeance  ! 

Sir  G.  Wert  thou  as  near  when  Beaufort  spoke  with  Vy vyan  1 
Wreck.  Shall  I  repeat  what  Vyvyan  said  to  Beaufort  1 

Sir  G.  Thou  know'st ■ 

Wreck.  I  know,  that  to  St.  Kinian's  Cliff 

Will  come  the  man  whose  hand  wrote  "  felon"  here. 

(touches  face.') 
Sir  G.  Mark,  what  1  ask  is  harder  than  to  strike  ; 

'Tis  to  forbear — but  'tis  revenge  with  safety. 

Let  Vyvyan  first  meet  Beaufort ;  watch  what  pass, 

And  if  the  boy,  whose  hand  obeys  all  passion, 

Should  slay  thy  foeman,  and  forestall  thy  vengeance, 

Upon  thy  life  (thou  know'st,  of  old,  Grey  Malpas) 

Prevent  not,  nor  assist. 
Wreck.  That  boy  slay  Vyvyan  ! 

Sir  G.  For  Vyvyan  is  unarmed. 

Wreck.  Law  calls  that — murder! 

Sir  G.  Which  by  thy  witness,  not  unbacked  by  proof, 

Would  give  the  murderer  to  the  headsman's  axe, 

And  leave  Grey  Malpas  heir  of  Montreville, 

And  thee  the  richest  squire  in  all  his  train. 

*  Vyvyan.  Evel.  Maksden.  Sib  Grey. 

c.  l.,  up. 


43 


Wreck.  I  do  conceive  the  scheme.     But  if  the  youth 
Fail  or  relent • 

SIR  G.  I  balk  not  thy  revenge. 

And,  if  the  corpse  of  Beaufort's  rival  be 

Found  on  the  spot  where  armed  Beaufort  met  him, 

To  whom  would  justice  track  the  death  blow  1 — Beaufort! 

Wreck.  No  further  words.     Or  his,  or  mine  the  hand, 

Count  one  life  less  on  earth  ;  and  weave  thy  scheme — 
As  doth  the  worm  its  coils — around  the  dead. 

[Exit  Wrecklyffe,  d.  vi  3  a.  f.nt. 

Sir  G.  "  One  death  avails  as  three,  since  for  the  mother 

Conscience  and  shame  were  sharper  than  the  steel." 
So,  I  o'erleap  the  gulf,  nor  gaze  below. 
On  this  side,  desolate  ruin  ;  bread  begrudged  j 
And  ribald  scorn  on  impotent  gray  hairs  ; 
The  base  poor  cousin  Boyhood  threats  with  famine — 
Whose  very  dog  is  butchered  if  it  bark  : — 
On  that  side  bended  knees  and  fawning  smiles, 
Ho  !  ho  !  there — Room  for  my  lord's  knights  and  pages  I 
Room  at  the  Court — room  there,  beside  the  throne! 
Ah,  the  new  Earl  of  Moutreville  !     His  lands 
Cover  two  shires.     Such  man  should  rule  the  state — 
A  gracious  lord — the  envious  call  him  old  ; 
Not  so — the  coronet  conceals  gray  hairs. 
He  limp'd,  they  say,  when  he  wore  hose  of  serge. 
Tut,  the  slow  march  becomes  the  robes  of  ermine. 
.    Back,  conscience,  back  !     Go  scowl  on  boors  and  beggars- 
Room,  smiling  flatterers,  room  for  the  new  Earl ! 

(comes  down  front,  proudly,  as  falls  the) 

CURTAIN. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — Same  as  Scene  L,  Act  II. 

Discover  Lady  Montreville,  r.     Enter  Vyvyan,  l. 

Lady  M.  Thou  com'st  already  to  demand  thy  bride  1 
Yyv.  Alas  !  such  nuptials  are  deferred.     This  night 

The  invader  summons  me — my  sole  bride,  Honor, 

And  my  sole  altar — England  !  (aside)  How  to  break  itl 
Ladt  M.  My  Clarence  on  the  land,  and  thou  on  sea, 

Both  for  their  country  armed !     Heaven  shield  ye  both  ! 
Yyv.  Say  you  that  ?     Both  ? — You  who  so  love  your  son  1 
Lady  M.  Better  than  life,  I  love  him ! 
Yyv.  (aside).  I  must  rush 

Into  the  thick.     Time  goads  me !  (aloud)  Had  you  not 

Another  son  1     A  first  born  1 
Lady  M.  Sir! 

Vyv.  A  son, 

On  whom  those  eyes  dwelt  first — whose  infant  cry 

Broke  first  on  that  divine  and  holiest  chord 


44  THE    l.U.Ull-TL   IiEIR, 

In  the  deep  heart  of  woman,  which  awakes 

All  Nature's  tenderest  music  ]     Turn  not  from  me 

I  know  the  mystery  of  thy  mournful  life. 

Will  it  displease  thee — will  it — to  helieve 

That  son  is  living  still  1 
Lady  M.  Sir — sir — such  license 

Expels  your  listener,  {turns  e.) 
y yv  No,  thou  wilt  not  leave  me  1 

I  say,  thou  wilt  not  leave  tne — on  my  knees    (kneclin/) 

I  say,  ihou  ahalt  not  leave  me ! 
Lady  M.  Loose  thine  hold  ! 

Vyv.   Jam  thy  son — thine  Edmond — thine  own  child  ! 

Saved  from  the  steel,  the  deep,  the  storm,  the  battle; 

Rising  from  death  to  thee — the  source  of  life ! 

Flung  by  kind  Heaven  once,  more  upon  thy  breast, 

Kissing  thy  robe,  and  clinging  to  thy  knees. 

Dost  thou  reject  thy  son  1 
Lady  M.  I  have  no  son, 

Save  Clarence  Beaufort. 
Y:  v  Do  not — do  not  hear  her, 

Thou  who,  enthroned  amid  the  pomp  of  stars, 

Dost  take  no  holier  name  than  that  of  Father  ! 

Thou  hast  no  other  son  1     0,  cruel  ODe  ! 

Look — look — these  letters  to  the  priest  who  reared  him — 

See  where  thou  call'st  him  "  Edmond  " — "  child  "  — <:  life's  all ! 

Can  the  words  be  so  fresh  on  this  frail  record, 

Yet  fade,  obliterate  from  the  undying  soul  ] 

By  these — by  these — by  all  the  solemn  past, 

By  thy  youth's  lover— by  his  secret  grave, 

By  every  kiss  upon  thine  infant's  cheek — 

By  every  tear  that  wept  his  fancied  death — 

Grieve  not  that  still  a  first-born  calls  thee  "  mother! 
Lady  M.  Rise.     If  these  prove  that  such  a  son  once  lived, 

Where  are  your  proofs  that  still  he  lives  in  you  1 
Vyv.    There  !  in  thine  heart ! — thine  eyes  that  dare  not  face  me  ! 

Thy  trembling  limbs,  each  power,  each  pulse  of  being, 

That  vibrates  at  my  voice  !     Let  pride  encase  thee 

With  nine-fold  adamant,  it  rends  asunder 

At  the  great  spell  of  Nature — Nature  calls 

Parent,  come  forth ! 
Lady  M.  {aside)  Resolve  gives  way  !     Lost  Clarence  !     {he  rises) 

What!  "  Fall  as  Romans  fell,  on  their  swords'  point  1  '■ 

No.Clarence.no!  {turning  fiercely)  Imposter  !  If  thy  craft 

Hath,  by  suborning  most  unworthy  spies, 

Sought  in  the  ruins  of  a  mourner's  life 

Some  base  whereon  to  pile  this  labored  falsehood, 

Let  law  laugh  down  the  fable — Quit  my  presence. 
Vyv.    No.     I  will  not. 
Lady  M.  Will  not !     Ho  ! 

Vyv.  Call  your  hirelings, 

And  let  them  hear  me.  {to  r.  c  )  Lo,  beneath  thy  roof, 

And  on  the  sacred  hearth  of  sires  to  both, 

Under  their  'scutcheon,  and  before  their  forms 

Which  from  the  ghostly  canvas  I  invoke 
To  hail  their  son — 1  take  my  dauntless  stand, 
Armed  with  my  rights  ;  now  bid  your  menials  thrust 
From  his  own  hearih  the  heir  of  Montreville  ! 


ACT    IT. 


Enter  Servants   i, 


45 


Lady  M    Seize  on (eloping  her  hands  before  her  face.) 

Out— oiiL!  (aside  i  His  father  stands  before  me 

Iu  the  son's  image      No.  I  dare  not  ■ 
First  Servant  ,  Madam. 

D;d  you  not  summon  us  « 
yyv  Tliey  wai'.  vour  mandate, 

Lady  of  Moatrevilie. 
Lady  M  Icaiiednct.     Go! 

^ADY  1V1  [Exeunt  Servants,  l. 

Art  thou  my  son  ?     If  so.  have  mercy,  Edmond ! 

Lei  Heaven  attest  with  what  remorseful  soul 

I  yielded  to  mv  ruthless  fathers  will, 

And  with  coid'lips  profaned  a  second  vow. 

I  had  a  child— I  was  a  parent  true  j 

But  exiled  from  the  parent  s  paradise. 

Not  mine  the  frank  K>v  in  the  face  of  day. 

The  pride,  the  boast   the  triumph,  and  the  rapture ; 

Thy  couch  was  sought  as  with  a  felons  step, 

And  whispering  nature  shuddered  at  detection. 

Ah,  could'st  thou  gruess  what  hell  to  loftier  minds 

It  is  to  live  m  one  eternal  lie 

Yet  spite  of  all,  how  dear  thou  wert ' 

Vtv  .    ,Iwas1 

Is  the  time  past  forever  1      What  my  sin  ! 
Lady  M.  I  loved  thee  till  another  son  was  born, 

A  blossom  'mid  the  snows      Thou  wert  afar, 
Seen  rarelv— alien— on  a  stra.gers  breast 

Leaning  for  life,   {with  great  feeling)    But  this  thrice-blessed  on« 
Smiledln  mine  eyes,  took  being  from  my  breast, 
Slept  in  mine  arms  ;   here  love  asked  no  concealment— 
Here  the  tear  shamed  not— here  the  kiss  was  glory— 
Here  I  put  on  my  royalty  of  woman— 
The  guardian,  the  protector  ;   food,  health,  life — 
It  clung  to  me  for  all.     Mother  and  child, 
Each  was  the  all  to  each. 
Vtv.  0-  prodigal, 

Such  wealth  to  him,  yet  naught  to  spare  to  me  ! 
Lady  M.  My  boy  grew  up,  my  Clarence.     Looking  on  him 

Men  prized  his  mother  more— so  fair  and  stately, 

And  the  world  deemed  to  such  high  state  the  heir ! 

Years  went ;  they  told  me  that  by  Nature's  death 

Thou  hadst  in  boyhood  passed  away  to  heaven. 

I  wept  thy  fate  ;   and  long  ere  tears  were  dried, 

The  thought  that  danger,  too,  expired  for  Clarence, 

Did  make  thy  memory  gentle. 
Vyv.  Do  you  wish 

That  I  were  still  what  once  you  wept  to  deem  me  1 
Lady  M.  I  did  rejoice  when  my  lip  kissed  thy  brow; 

I  did  rejoice  to  give  thy  heart  its  bride ; 

I  would  have  drained  my  coffers  for  her  dowry ; 

But  wouldst  thou  ask  me  if  I  can  rejoice 

That  a  life  rises  from  the  grave  abrupt 

To  doom  the  life  I  cradled,  reared,  and  wrapt 

From  every  breeze,  to  desolation  1 — No  1 


4G  THK    LtiGJJU  I  L  ;.    lli.lU. 

Vvv    What  would  you  have  me  do  1 

Lady  M.  Accept  the  dowry 

And  blest  with  Eveline's  love,  renounce  thy  mother 
Vvv    Renounce  thee  '     No — these  lips  belie  not  Nature  ' 

Never  ' 
Lady  M.  Enough — I  can  ho  mean  no  more. 

E'en  in  the  prayer  that  asked  his  life.     Go,  slay  it. 
Vvv.    Why  must  uiy  life  slay  his  \ 
Lady  M.  *  Since  his  was  shaped 

To  soar  to  power — not  grovel  Lo  dependence — 

And  I  do  seal  his  deaih-wiii  when  I  say, 

"  Down  to  the  dust,  Usurper  ,  bow  the  knee 

And  sue  for  alms  to  the  true  Lord  of  Beaufort.'' 

Those  w  rds  shall  not  be  said — 1 11  find  some  nobler. 

Thy  rights  are  clear.     The  law  might  long  defer  them — 

I  do  forestall  the  law.     These  lands  he  thine. 

Wait  not  my  death  to  lord  it  in  my  hall  . 

Thus  I  say  not  to  Clarence,  "  lie  dependent'' — 

But  I  can  say,  "  Share  poverty  with  me." 

I  go  to  seek  him;  at  his  side  depart ; 

He  spurns  thine  alms  ;   I  wronged  thee — take  thy  vengeance! 
Vyv.    Merciless — hold,  and  hear  me — I — alms  ! — vengeance  ! — 

True — true,  this  heart  a  mother  never  cradled, 

Or  she  had  known  it  better. 
Lady  M.  Edmond ' 

Vyv.  Hush ! 

Call  me  that  name  no  more — it  dies  forever! 

Nay,  1  renounce  thee  not,  for  that  were  treason 

On  the  child 8  lip.     Parent,  i enounce — thy — child! 

As  for  these  nothings,  (giving papers)  take  them:  if  you  dread 

To  find  words,  once  too  fond,  they're  blurr'd  already — 

You'll  see  but  tears  :  tears  of  such  sweetness,  madam. 

I  did  not  think  of  lands  and  halls,  pale  Countess, 

I  did  but  think — tnese  arms  shall  clasp  a  mother. 

"  Now  they  are  worthless — take  them.     Never  guess 

How  covetous  I  was — how  hearts,  cast  off, 

Pine  for  their  rights— rights  not  of  parchment,  lady." 

Part  we,  then,  thus  1     No,  put  thine  arms  around  me ; 

Let  me  remember  in  the  years  to  come, 

That  I  have  lived  to  sav,  a  mother  blessed  me  !  (kneels.) 
Lady  M.  Oh,  Edmond,  Edmond,  thou  hast  conquered  ! 

Thy  father's  voice  !— his  eyes  !     Look  down  from  heaven, 

Bridegroom,  and  pardon  me  ;  I  bless  thy  child  ! 
Vyv.   Hark  !  she  has  blessed  her  son  !     It  mounts  to  heaven, 

The  blessing  of  the  mother  on  her  child  ! 

Mother,  and  mother  -.—how  the  word  thrills  thro'  me  ! 

Mother  again,  dear  mother  !     Place  thy  hand 

Here — on  my  heart      Now  thou  hast  felt  it  beat, 

Wilt  thou  misjudge  it  more  1 
Lady  M.  Oh ! 

Vyv.  Recoil'st  thou  still  1 

Lady  M    (breaking  from  him).  What  have  I  done  ! — betrayed,  con- 
demned my  Clarence  !  (to  B.,  frantically.) 
Vyv.  (c).  Condemned  thy  Clarence  !     By  thy  blessing,  No  ! 

That  blessing  was  my  birthright.     I  have  won 

That  which  I  claimed.     Give  Clarence  all  the  rest. 

Silent,  as  sacred,  be  the  memory 


ACT    IV.  47 

Of  this  atoning  hour.     Look,  evermore  (kissing  Iter) 
Thus — thus  I  seal  the  secret  of  thy  first-born  ' 
Now.  only  Clarence  lives  !     Heaven  guard  thy  Clarence  ! 
Now  deem  me  dead  to  thee.     Farewell,  farewell  ! 

[Exit  Vtvtah,  l. 
Ladt  M.  (rushing  after  him).  Hold,  hold— too  generous,  hold  !    Come 
back,  my  son!  \Exit  Lady  Montreville,  l. 

Scene  changes  to 

SCENE  II. — Sea  and  Rocks  in  4th  grooves. 

Enter  Lord  Beaufort,  l.  1  e. 

Lord  B.  And  still  not  here  !     The  hour  has  long  since  passed. 
I'll  climb  yon  tallest  peak,  and  strain  mine  eyes 
Down  the  "sole  path  between  the  cliff  and  ocean. 

{goes  tip  steps  R.,  and  off  n.  2  E.) 

Enter  Wrecklyffb,  l.  1  e. 

Wreck.  The  boors  first  grinned,  then  paled,  and  crept  away ; 

The  tavern-keeper  slunk,  and  muttered  "  Hangdog !  " 

And  the  she-drudge  whose  rough  hand  served  the  drink, 

Stifled  her  shriek,  and  let  the  tankard  fall ! 

It  was  not  so  in  the  old  merry  days  : 

Then  the  scarred  hangdog  was  "  fair  gentleman." 

And — but  the  reckoning  waits.     Why  tarries  ho  1  (beat  on  bass 
drum,  with  diminuendo  beats,  for  signal  gun,  and  its  echo.es.) 

A  signal !     Ha ! 
Vyv.  (offi>.)  I  come,  I  come! 

Wreck,  (grasping  his  cutlass,  but  receding  as  he  sees  Beaufort  entet 

r.  I  e.)  Hot  lordling  ! 

1  had  well  nigh  forestalled  thee.     Patience  ! 

[Exit  around  set  rock,  h.  c. 
Lord  B.  (r.  2  e.,  on  platform.)  Good! 

From  crag  to  crag  he  bounds — my  doubts  belied  him ; 

His  haste  is  eager  as  my  own. 

Enter  Vyvyan,  l.  1  e.,  crossing  and  going  up  R.  steps. 

Sir,  welcome. 
(both  on  first  platform,  r.  u.  E.) 
Vyv.    Stay  me  not,  stay  me  not  !     Thou  hast  all  else 

But  honor — rob  me  not  of  that !      Unhand  me  ! 
Lord  B.  Unhand  thee  1  yes — to  take  thy  ground  and  draw. 
Vyv.  Thou  know'st  not  what  thou  gayest.     Let  me  go  ! 
Lord  B.  Thyself  didst  name  the  place  and  hour  : 
Vyv.  For  here 

I  thought  to  clasp — (aside)  I  have  no  brother  now  ! 
Lord  B.  He  thought  to  clasp  his  Eveline.     Death  and  madness! 
Vyv.  Eveline  !     Thou  lov'st  not  Eveline.     "  Be  consoled. 

Thou  hast  not  known  affliction — hast  not  stood 

Without  the  porch  of  the  sweet  home  of  mpii ; 

Thou  hast  leaned  upon  no  reed  that  pierced  the  heart ; 

Thou  hast  not  known  what  it  is,  when  in  the  desert 


48  TUE    IilGHTFUX    II KIR. 

Tlie  hopeless  find  ihe  fountain.''     Happy  boy, 
Thou  hast  not  loved      Leave  love  to  man  and  sorrow! 
Lord  B.  Dost  thou  presume  upon  my  years  ?     Dull  scoffer! 
The  brave  is  man  betimes — the  coward  never. 
Boy  if  I  be,  my  playmates  have  been  veterans ; 
My  toy  a  sword,  and  my  first  lesson  valor. 
And,  had  I  taken  challenge  as  thou  hast, 
And  on  the  ground  replied  to  bold  defiance 
With  random  words  implying  dastard  taunts, 
"  With  folded  arms,  pale  lip,  and  haggard  brow," 
I'd  never  live  to  call  myself  a  man. 
Thus  says  the  boy,  since  manhood  is  so  sluggard, 
Soldier  and  captain.     Do  not  let  me  strike  thee  ! 
Vtv.   Do  it, — and  tell  thy  mother,  when  thy  hand 

Outraged  my  cheek,  I  pardoned  thee,  and  pitied. 
Lord  B.  Measureless  insult !     Pitied!   (drum  for  gun  as  before.) 
Vy v.  There  again  ! 

And  still  so  far  !     Out  of  my  path,  insane  one! 

Were  there  naught  else,  thy  youth,  thy  mother's  love 

Should  make  th^3  sacred  to  a  warrior's  arm — 

Out  of  my  path.     Thus,  then,   (suddenly  lifts,  and  puts  him  aside.) 

Oh,  England— England ! 
Do  not  reject  me  too  ! — I  come  !    I  come  ! 

(up  the  steps  to  upper  platform.) 
Lord  B.  Thrust  from  his  pathway — every  vein  runs  fire ! 
Thou  shalt  not  thus  escape  me — Stand  or  die  ! 

(sword  in  hunt,  drives  Vyvyan  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  he 
grasps,  for  support,  the  bough  of  tree.) 
Vyv.  Forbear,  forbear! 

Lord  B.  Thy  blood  on  thine  own  head  !  (drum  for  gun 

as  before.     As  Beaufort  lifts  his  sword  and  strikes,  Vyvyan 

retreats — ihe  bough  breaks,  and  Vyvyan  swings  L.,  and  down 

into  centre  trap.)  ^ 

Wreck,  (rises  r.  c.  by  trap).  Is  the  deed  done  7    If  not,  this  steel 

completes  it.  (waves  cutlass  and  exit  down  trap.     Lord 

Beadfort  sinks  on  his  knee  in  horror.    Work  ship  on  R.  to 

L.,  across.) 

SLOW     CURTAIN. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.—  Same  as  Act  IV.,  Scene  II. 

Enter  Sir  Grey  de  Malpas,  l.,  leaning  on  cane. 

Sir  G.  A  year — and  Wrecklyffe  still  is  mute  and  absent, 
Even  as  Vyvyan  is  '     Most  clear  !     He  saw, 
And  haply  shared,  the  murderous  deed  of  Beaufort ; 
And  Beaufort's  wealth  hath  bribed  him  to  desert 
Penury  and  me.     That  Clarence  slew  his  brother 
I  cannot  doubt.     He  shuts  me  from  his  presence ; 
But  I  have  watched  him,  wandering,  lone,  yet  haunted- 


ACT  v.  49 

Marked  the  white  lip  and  glassy  eves  of  one 

For  whom  the  grave  lias  ghosts,  and  silence,  horror. 

His  mother,  on  vague  pretext  of  mistrust 

That  I  did  sell  her  first-born  to  the  pirate. 

Excludes  me  from  her  sight,  hut  sends  me  alms 

Lest  the  world  cry,  ':  See,  her  poor  cousin  starves  ! " 

Can  she  guess  Beaufort's  guilt  ]     Nay !     For  she  lives  ! 

I  know  that  deed,  which,  told  unto  the  world, 

AVould  make  me  heir  of  Montreville.     0,  mockery  ! 

For  how  proceed  1 — no  proof  !     How  charge  1 — no  witness ! 

How  cry,  "  Lo  !  murder!  "  yet  produce  no  corpse  ! 

Enter  Alton,  r. 

Alton    Sir  Grey  de  Malpas  !  I  was  on  my  way 

To  your  own  house. 
Sir  G.  Good  Alton — can  I  serve  you  1 

Alton.  The  boy  I  took  from  thee,  returned  a  man 

Twelve  months  ago:  mine  oath  absolved. 
Sir  G.  'Tis  true. 

Alton.  Here  did  I  hail  the  rightful  lord  of  Montreville, 

And  from  these  arms  he  rushed  to  claim  his  birthright. 
Sir  G.  (aside).  She  never  told  me  this 
Alton.  That  night  his  war-ship 

Sailed  to  our  fleet.     I  deemed  him  with  the  battle. 

Time  went ;  Heaven's  breath  had  scattered  the  Armada. 

I  sate  at  my  porch  to  welcome  him — he  came  not 

I  said,  "  His  mother  has  abjured  her  offspring, 

And  law  detains  him  while  he  arms  for  justice." 

Hope  sustained  patience  till  to-day. 
Sir  G.  To-day  1 

Alton.  The  very  friend  who  had  led  me  to  his  breast 

Returns  and 

Sir  G.  (soothingly.)     Well  1 

Alton.  He  fought  not  with  his  country. 

Sir  G.  And  this  cold  friend  lets  question  sleep  a  year  1 
Alton.  His  bark  too  rashly  chased  the  flying  foe ; 

Was  wrecked  on  hostile  shores;  and  he  a  prisoner. 
Sir  G.  Lean  on  my  arm,  thou'rt  faint. 
Alton.  Oh,  Grey  de  Malpas, 

Can  men  so  vanish — save  in  murderous  graves! 

You  turn  away. 
Sir  G.  What  murder  without  motive  1 

And  who  had  motive  here! 
Alton.  Unnatural  kindred. 

Sir  G.  Kindred  !  Ensnare  me  not !     Mine,  too,  that  kindred. 

Old  man,  beware  how  thou  asperse  (pause)  Lord  Beaufort ! 
Alton.  Beaufort!     Oh,  horror!     How  the  instinctive  truth 

Starts  from  thy  lips  ! 
Sir  G.  From  mine  1 

Alton.  Yes.     Not  of  man 

Ask  pardon,  if  accomplice 

Sir  G.  I,  accomplice ! 

Nay,  since  'tis  my  good  name  thou  sulliest  now— 

This  is  mine  answer  :  Probe  ;  examine  ;  search ; 

And  call  on  justice  to  belie  thy  slander. 

Go,  seek  the  aid  of  stout  Sir  Godfrey  Seymour  ; 


50  I'HE    KlGfiXTOI    HEIE. 

A  dauntless  magistrate  ;  strict,  upright,  honest ; 

{aside).  At  heart  a  Puritan,  and  hates  a  Lord, 

"With  otlier  slides  that  tit  into  my  grooves. 
Alton.  He  bears  with  all  the  righteous  name  thou  giv'st  him, 

Thy  zeal  acquits  thyself. 
Sir  G..  And  charges  nor.e. 

Alton.  Heaven  reads  the  heart.     Man  can  but  track  ihe  deed. 

My  task  is  stern.  [Exit  Alton,  l. 

Sir  G  Scent  lies — suspicion  dogs, 

And  with  hot  breath  pants  on  the  flight  of  conscience. 

Ah  !  who  comes  here  1     Sharp  wit,  round  all  occasion! 

Enter  Falkner  with  Sailors,  l. 

Falk.  Learn  all  you  can — when  latest  seen,  and  where — 

Meanwhile  I  seek  yon  towers.  [Exeunt  Sailors,  l. 

Sin  G.  Doubtless,  fair  sir, 

I  speak  to  Vyvyan's  friend.     My  Mime  is  Malpas — 
Can  it  be  true,  as  Alton  doth  infoim  me, 
That  you  suspect  your  comrade  died  by  murder  1 

Falk.  Murder ! 

Bib  <1.  And  by  a  rival's  hand  1     Amazed! 

Yet  fjirely  so  I  did  conceive  the  priest. 

Falk.  Murder! — a  rival  !— true,  he  loved  a  maiden! 

Sir  G.  In  yonder  halls! 

Falk.  Despair!     Am  I  too  late 

For  all  but  vengeance  !     Speak,  sir — who  this  rival  ] 

Sir  G.  Vengeance  ! — fie — seek  tho.-e  towers,  and  learn  compassion. 
Sad  change  indeed,  since  here,  at  s  lent  night, 
Your  Vyvyan  met  the  challenge  of  Lord  Beaufort. 

Falk.  A  challenge  1 — here  ? — at  night  1 

Sir  G.  Yes,  this  the  place. 

How  sheer  the  edge  !  crag,  cave,  and  chasm  below  ! 
If  the  foot  slipped, — nay,  let  us  think  slipped  heedless, — 
Or  some  weak  wounded  man  were  headlong  plunged, 
"What  burial  place  more  secret  ? 

Falk.  Hither,  look  ! 

Look  where,  far  down  the  horrible  descent, 
Through  some  fresh  cleft  rush  subterranean  waves, 
How  wheel  and  circle  ghastly  swooping  wings  ! 

Sir  G.  The  sea-gulls  ere  a  storm, 

Falk.  No!     Heaven  is  clear  ! 

The  storm  they  te\\,  speeds  lightning  towards  the  guilty. 
So  have  I  seen  the  foul  birds  in  lone  creeks 
Sporting  around  the  shipwrecked  seaman's  bones. 
Guide  me,  ye  spectral  harbingers  !  {down  c    trap.     Music.) 

Sir  G.  From  bough 

To  bough  he  swings — from  peak  to  slippery  peak 
I  see  him  dwindl  ns  down  ; — the  loose  stones  rattle ; 
He  falls — he  falls — but  'lights  on  yonder  ledge, 
And  from  the  glaring  sun  turns  steadfast  eyes 
NWhere  still  the  sea-gulls  wheel  ;  now  crawls,  now  leaps ; 
Crags  close  around  him — not  a  glimpse  nor  sound  ! 
0,  diver  for  the  dead  !  (sinks  doivn  as  if  watching  Falkner 

then  rises)  Bring  up  but  bones, 
And  round  the  sku'l  I'll  wreathe  my  coronet.  [Exit,  k. 


ACT    T. 


Scene  changes  to 

SCENE  II. — Interior  in  1st  grooves. 

Enter  Lady  Montreville  and  Marsden,  l. 

Lady  M.   Will  he  nor  hunt  nor  hawk'?     This  constant  gloom! 

Canst  thou  not  guess  the  cause  1     He  icas  so  joyous  ! 
Mars.  Young  plants  need  air  and  sun  ;  man's  youth  the  world. 

Young  men  should  nine  for  action.     Comfort,  madam, 

The  cause  is  clear,  if  you  recall  the  date. 
Lady  M.  Thou  hast  marked  the  date  ? 

Mars.  Since  that  bold  seaman's  visit. 

Lady  M.  Thy  tongue  runs  riot,  man.     How  should  that  stranger — 

I  say  a  stranger,  strike  dismay  in  Beaufort  1 
Mars.  Dismay  !     Not  that,  but  emulation! 
Lady  M.  Ay ! 

You  speak  my  thoughts,  and  I  have  prayed  our  Queen 

To  rank  your  young  lord  with  her  chivalry ; 

This  day  mine  envoy  should  return. 
Mars.  This  day  1 

Let  me  ride  forth  and  meet  him  ! 
Lady  M.  Go  !        [Exit  Marsden,  l. 

'Tis  true ! 

Such  was  the  date.      Hath  Clarence  guessed  the  secret — 

Guessed  that  a  first-born  lives  1     I  dread  to  question! 

Yet  sure  the  wronged  was  faithful,  and  the  wrong 

Is  my  heart's  canker-worm  and  gnaws  unseen. 

Where  wanderest  thou,  sad  Edmond  1     Not  one  word 

To  siy  thou  liv'st — thy  very  bride  forsaken, 

As  if  love,   frozen  at  the  parent  well-spring, 

Left  every  channel  dry  !     What  hollow  tread, 

Heavy  and  weary  falls  1     Is  that  the  step 

Which  touched  the  mean  earth  with  a  lightsome  scorn, 

As  if  the  air  its  element  1 

Enter,  Beaufort,  r.,  in  mantle. 

4 
Lord  B.  Cold  !  cold  ! 

And  yet  I  saw  the  beggar  doff  his  frieze, 
Warm  in  his  rags.     I  shiver  under  ermine. 
For  me  'tis  never  summer — never — never  ! 
Lady  M.    How  fares  my  precious  one  1 
Lord  B.  Well ; — but  so  cold. 

Ho  !  there  !  without ! 

Enter  Servant,  l. 

Wine  !  wine  !  [Exit  Servant,  l. 

Lady  M.  Alas  !  alas  ! 

Why,  this  is  fever — thy  hand  burns. 
Lord  B.  That  hand  ! 

Ay,  that  hand  always  burns. 

Re-enter  Servant,  l.,  with  wine  in  goblet,  on  salver. 
Look  you — the  cup 


52  THE    KIGHIFLL    HEIR. 

The  wondrous  Tuscan  jeweller,  Cellini, 

Made  for  a  king  !     A  king's  gift  to  thy  father  ! 

What  1     Serve  such  gaads  to  me  ! 
Lady  M.  Thyself  so  ordered 

In  the  proud  whims  thy  light  heart  made  so  graceful. 
Lord  B.  Was  I  proud  once  "?     Ha  !  ha  !  what's  this  1 — not  wine  1 
Servant.  The  Malvoisie  your  lordship's  friends,  last  year, 

Esteemed  your  rarest. 
Lord  B.  How  one  little  year 

Hath  soured  it  into  nausea  !     Faugh — 'tis  rank. 
Lady  M.  (to  Servant).  Send  for  the  leech — quick — go. 

[Exit  Servant,  l. 
Oh,  Clarence  !  Clarence  ! 

Is  this  the  body's  sickness,  or  the  soul's  ! 

Is  it  life's  youngest  sorrow,  love  misplaced'! 

Thou  dost  not  still  love  Eveline  1 
Lord  B.  Did  I  love  her  1 

Lady  M.  Or  one  whose  birth  might  more  offend  my  pride  1 

Well,  I  am  proud.     But  I  would  hail  as  daughter 

The  meanest  maiden  from  whose  smil<>  thy  lip 

Caught  smiles  again.     Thy  smile  is  day  to  me. 
Lord  B.  Poor  mother,  fear  not.     Never  hermit-monk, 

Gazing  on  skulls  in  lone  sepulchral  cells, 

Had  heart  as  proof  to  woman's  smile  as  mine. 
Lady  M.  The  court — the  camp — ambition 

Enter  Marsden,  with  a  letter,  R. 

Mars.  From  the  Queen ! 

(while  the  Countess  reads,  Marsden,  turning  to  Lord  Beaufort) 
My  dear  young  lord,  be  gay  !     The  noblest  knight, 
In  all  the  land,  Lord  Essex,  on  his  road 
From  conquered  Cadiz,  'with  the  armed  suite 
That  won  his  laurels,"  sends  before  to  greet  you, 
And  prays  you  will  receive  him  in  your  halls. 

Lord  B.  The  flower  of  England's  gentry,  spotless  Essex  ! 
Sully  him  not,  old  man,  bid  him  pass  on. 

Lady  M.  Joy,  Beaufort,  joy  !     August  Elizabeth 

Owns  thee  her  knight,  and  bids  thee  wear  her  colors, 
And  break  thy  maiden  lance  for  England's  lady. 

Lord  B.  I  will  not  go.     Barbed  steeds  and  knightly  banners- 
Baubles  and  gewgaws  ! 

Mars.  Glorious  to  the  young. 

Lord  B.  Ay — to  the  young  !     Oh,  when  did  poet  dreams 
Ever  shape  forth  such  a  fairy  land  as  youth  ! 
Gossamer  hopes,  pearled  with  the  dews  of  morn, 
Gay  valor,  bounding  light  on  welcome  peril, — 
Errors  themselves,  the  sparkling  overflow, 
Of  life  as  headlong,  but  as  pure  as  streams 
That  rush  from  sunniest  hill-tops  kissing  heaven, — 
Lo  !  that  is  youth.     Look  on  my  soul,  old  man, 
Well — is  it  not  more  gray  than  those  blanched  hairs  1  (falls  in 
seat,  c.) 

Lady  M.  He  raves.     Heed  not  his  words.    Go  speedy  the  leech ! 

[Exit  Marsden,  r.,  quickly, 
(aside).  I  know  these  signs — by  mine  own  soul  I  know  them ; 
This  is  nor  love,  nor  honor's  sigh  for  action, 


aqj:  t.  53 

Nor  Nature's  milder  suffering.     This  is  guilt !    (sits,  l.  c.) 
Clarence— now,  side  by  side,  I  sit  with  thee  ! 
Put  thine  arms  round  me,  lean  upon  my  breast- 
It  is  a  mother's  breast.     So,  that  is  well ; 
Now— whisper  low— what  is  thy  crime  1 

Lord  B.  (bursting  into  tears).  Oil,  mother  1 

Would  thou  hadst  never  borne  me  ! 

Lady  M  Ah>  "«Sratetul  ! 

Loud  B  '  No— for  thy  sake  I  speak.     Thou— justly  proud, 
For 'thou  art  pure  ;  thou,  on  whose  whitest  name 
Detraction  spies  no  soil— dost  thou  say  1:  crime  ' 
Unto  thy  son  ;  and  is  his  answer  tears  7 

Enter  Eveline,  r.,  weaving  flowers  as  in  Act  I. 

Evel.  Blossoms,  I  weave  ye 

To  di  ift  on  the  sea, 
Say  when  ye  find  him 
Who  sang  :1  Woe  is  me !  " 
(approaching  Beaufort)  Have  you  no  news  7 
T      ^  i>  Of  whom  1 

Evel  Of  Vyvyan 7 

Lord  B.  That  name  I     Her  reason  wanders  ;  and  oh,  mother, 

When  that  name's  uttered— so  doth  mine— hush,  hush  it. 

(Eveline  goes  to  window,  and  throws  garland  through) 
Lady  M.  Kill  me  at  once— or  when  I  ask  again, 

What  is  thv  crime  7— reply,  "No  harm  to  Vyvyan! 
Lord  B.  (breaking  away).  Unhand  me  !      Let  me  go  ! 

[Exit  Lord  Beaufort,  l.,  wildly. 

Lady  M  ™s  Pulse  beats  slill! 

Nature  rejects  me ! 
Evel.  Come,  come— see  the  garland, 

It  dances  on  the  waves  so  merrily. 

Enter  Marsden,  r. 

Mars,  (drawing  aside  Lady  ML).  Forgive  this  haste.     Amid  St.  Kini- 
a'n's  Cliffs 
Where,  once  an  age,  on  glassy  peaks  may  glide 
The  shadow  of  a  man,  a  stranger  venturing 
Hath  found  bleached  human  bones,  ai.d  to  your  hall, 
Nearest  at  hand,  and  ever  famed  for  justice, 
Leads  on  the  crowd,  and  saith  the  dead  was  Vyvyan 

Evel.  Ha  !  who  named  Vyvyan  7     Has  he  then  come  back  7 

Mars.  Fair  mistress,  no. 

LADy  M.  ^  °n  this  terrible  earth 

Pity  lives  still— lead  her  away.     Be  tender. 

Evel,  (approaching  Lady  M.).  I  promised  him  to  love  you  as  a  mo- 

Kiss  me%nd  trust  in  Heaven !     He  will  return  ! 

[Exeunt  Eveline  ana  Maksden,  r. 

Lady  M.  These  horrors  are  unreal. 


Servant. 


Enter  Servant,  r. 

Noble  mistress. 


54  THE    EIGMFUL    HEIli. 

Sir  Godfrey  Seymour,  summoned  here  in  haste, 

Craves  your  high  presence  in  t tie  Justice  Hall. 
Lady  M.  Mine — mine  1     Where  yuest  Lhou  ? 
Servant.  Sir  Godfrey  hade  me 

Seek  my  young  lord. 
■*L»t>y  M.  Stir  not.     My  son  is  ill. 

Thyself  canst  witness  how  the  fevei — {hurrying  r.)  Marsden  f 

Enter  Marsden,  r.  . 

My  stricken  Clarence  ! — In  his  state,  a  rumor 

Of — of  what  passes  here,  might  blast  life — reason  : 

Go,  lure  hitn  hence — if  he  resist,  use  force 

As  to  a  maniac.     Ah!  good  old  man,  thou  lov'sthim; 

His  innocent  childhood  played  around  thy  knees — 

I  know  I  can  trust  thee — Quick — speak  not : — Save  ! 

[  Exit  Marsdsh,  l. 
(to  Servant)  Announce  my  coming.  [Exit  Servant,  r. 

This  day,  life  lo  shield 
The  living  son  : — Death,  with  the  dead,  to-morrow  ! 

[Exit  Lady  Montreville,  r. 

SCENE  III.— Castle  Ball,  in  5th  grooves. 

Discover  Sir  Godfrey  Seymour  seated,  l.     Clerk,  at  table,  empl 

writing.     Sir  Grey   de  Malpas  standing  up  i.,  near  8m  Godfrey. 
Falkner,  l.  c.     Halberdiers,  Servants. 

Sir  Godf.  (to  Falkner).  Be  patient,  sir,  and  give  us  ample?  \u-oof 

To  deem  yon  (indistinguishable  hones 

The  relics  of  your  friend. 
Falk.  That  gentleman 

Can  hack  my  oath,  that  those,  the  plume,  tire  gem 

Which  Vyvyan  wore — I  found  them  on  the  cliff. 
Sir  Godf.  Verily,  is  it  so  1 
Sir  G.  (with  assumed  re  uctance").  Sith  law  compel  me — 

Yes,  I  must  vouch  it. 

Enter  Servant,  r.  2  e. 

Servant  (placing  a  chair  of  state).  Sir,  my  lady  comes. 

Sir  G.  And  her  son. 

Enter,  r.  2  e.,  Lady  Montreville,  and  seats  herself,  r.  c. 

Sir  Godf.  You  pardon,  madam,  mine  imperious  duties, 

And  know  my  dismal  task 

Ladt  M.  Pray  you  he  hrief,  sir. 

Sir  Godf.   Was,  this  time  year,  the  captain  of  a  war-ship, 

Vyvyan  his  name,  your  guest  1 
Lady  M.  But  one  short  day — 

To  see  my  ward,  whom  he  had  saved  from  pirates. 
Sir  Godf.  I  pray  you,  madam,  in  his  converse  with  you 

Spoke  he  of  any  foe,  concealed  or  open, 

AVhom  he  had  cause  to  fear  1 
Lady  M.  Of  none ! 

Sir  Godf.  Nor  know  you 

Of  any  such  ] 


ACT    V.  „  OD 

LADY  M.   (after  a  pause).  I  do  not. 

Sir  Godf.  (aside  to  Falkxeii).         Would  yott  farther 

Question  this  lady,  sir] 
Falk.  No.  she  is  a  woman, 

And  mother;  let  her  go.     I  wait  Lord  Beaufort. 
Sir  Godf.  Madam,  no  longer  will  we  task  you:-  p  esence. 

Enter  Lord  Bbaufort,  c.  d.  r.,  breaking  from  Marsden,  and  other  At- 
tendants. 

Lord  B.  Off,  dotard,  off!     Guests  in  our  hali! 

Lady  M.  He  is  ill. 

Sore  ill — fierce  fever — I  will  lead  him  forth. 

Come,  Clarence  ;  darling  come  ! 
Lord  B.  Who  is  this  man  ? 

Falk.  The  friend  of  Vyvyan,  whose  pale  hones  plead  yonder. 
Lord  B.  I — I  will  go.     L  t's  steal  away,  my  mother. 
Falk.  Lost  friend,  in  war,  how  oft  thy  word  was  "  Spare." — 

Methinks  I  hear  thee  now.     (draws  Lord  Beaufort  to  r.  c.) 
Young  lord,  1  came 

Into  these  halls,  demanding  blood  for  blood — 

But  thy  remorse  (this  is  remorse)  disarms  me. 

Speak  ;  do  but  say — (look,  I  am  young  myself, 

And  know  how  hot  is  youih  ;)  speak — do  but  say, 

After  warm  wn-l-i.  struck  out  from  jealous  frenzy, 

Quick  swords  were  drawn:  Man's  open  strife  with  man — 

Passion,  not  murder  :  Say  this,  and  may  law 

Pardon  thee,  as  a  soldier  does ! 
Sir  Grey  (to  Marsden).  Call  Eveline, 

She  can  attest  our  young  lord's  innocence.  [Exit  Marsdf.n, 
Falk.  He  will  not  speak,  sir,  let  my  charge  proceed. 
Lady  M.  (aside).  Wha  e'er  the  truth — of  that — of  that  hereafter, 

Now  but  remember,  child,  thy  birth,  thy  name  ; — 

Thy  mother's  heart,  it  beats  beside  thee — take 

Strength  from  its  pulses. 
Lord  B.  Keep  close,  and  for  thy  sake 

I  will  not  cry — "  'Twas  passion,  yet  still,  murder  !  " 
Sir  Godf.  (tvho  hns  been  conversing  aside  with  Sir  Grey).  Then  jealous 
love  the  motive  1     Likelier  that 

Thau  Alton's  wilder  story. 

Enter  Eveline  and  Marsden,  c.  d.  r. 

Sweet  young  madam, 

Tf  I  be  blunt,  forgive  me  ;  we  are  met 

On  solemn  matters  which  relate  to  one 

Who,  it  is  said,  was  your  betrothed  : 
Evel.  To  Vyvyan  ! 

Sir  Godf.  'Tis  also  said,  Lord  Beaufort  crossed  his  suit, 

Ani  your  betrother  resented. 
Evel.  No  !  forgave. 

Sir  G.  Yes,  when  you  feared  some  challenge  from  Lord  Beaufort, 

Did  Vyvyan  not  cast  down  his  sword  and  say, 

"  Both  will  be  safe,  for  one  will  be   unarmed  1   (great  sensation 
through  the  hall.) 
Falkner  and  Sir  Godfrey.  Unarmed ! 
Evel.  His  very  words  ! 


56  TliK   lUCJUTFUL   H.EIB. 

Falk.  Oh,  vile  assassin  ! 

Sib  Godf.  Accuser,  peace !     This  is  most  grave.     Lord  Beaufort, 

Upon  such  tokens,  with  your  own  strange  bearing. 

As  ask  appeal  to  more  august  tribunal, 

You  stand  accused  of  purposed  felon  muider 

On  one  named  Vyvjan,  Captain  of  tlie  Dreadnought — 

"  Wouldst  thou  say  aught  against  this  solemn  charge?  " 
Evel.  Murdered  ! — he — Vy  vyau  !   Thou  his  murderer,  Clarence, 

In  whose  rash  heat  my  hero  loved  frank  valor  1 

Lo !  I,  to  whom  his  life  is  as  the  sun 

Is  to  the  world — with  my  calm  trust  in  Heaven 

Mantle  thee  thus.     Now,  speak  ! 
Lady  M.  (aside).  Be  firm — deny,  and  live. 

Lord  B.  (attempting  to  be  haughty).  You  call  my  bearing   "  strange  1  " 
— what  marvel,  sir  I 

Stunned  by  such  charges,  of  a  crime  so  dread. 

What  proof  against  me  1  (Siu  Grey  meets  Alton   up  r.   i  h  i 
keeps  him  in   talk  ) 
Lady  M.  Words  deposed  by  whom] 

A  man  unknown  ; — a  girl's  vague  fear  of  quarrel — 

His  motive  what  1     A  jealous  anger  !     Phantoms  ! 

Is  not  my  son  mine  all!     And  yet  this  maid 

/plighted  to  another.     Had  1  done  so 

If  loved  by  him,  and  at  the  risk  of  life  ? 

Again,  I  ask  all  present  what  the  motive  1 
Alton,  (comes  down  with    Sir    Greyj.*    Bank,  fortune,  birthirght. 

Miserable  woman  ! 
Lady  M.  Whence  coiu'st  thou,  pale  accuser? 
Alton.  From  the  dead! 

Which  of  ye  two  will  take  the  post  I  leave  1 

Which  of  ye  two  will  draw  a.Mile  that  veil, 

Look  on  the  bones  behind,  and  cry,  "  I'm  jjuiltiess  ?  " 

Hast  thou  conspired  with  him  to  slayr  thy  first-born, 

Or  knows  he  not  that  Yyvyan  was  his  brother  ?  (Lady  Montkl- 
ville  swoons.     Eveline  rushes  to  Lady  Montreyille.) 
Lord  B.  My  brother !     No,  uo,  uo  !  (clutching  holu  of  Sir  Grey.)  Kins- 
man, he  lies ! 
Sir  G.  Alas!  (r.  front.) 
Lord  B.  Wake,  mother  wake.     I  ask  not  speech. 

Lift  but  thy  brow — one  flash  of  thy  proud  eye 

Would  strike  these  liars  dumb  ! 
Alton.  Read  but  those  looks 

To  learn  that  thou  art 

Lord  B.  Cain  !  (grasping  Falkner)    Out  with  thy  sword — (l.) 

Hew  off  this  hand.     Thou  calledst  me  "  assassin  ! " 

Too  mild — say  "fratricide  !  "      Cain,  Cain,  thy  brother!  (falls 
sobbing,  c.  front) 
Evel.  It  cannot  be  so !     No.     Thou  wondrous  Mercy, 

That,  from  the  pirate's  knife,  the  funeral  seas 

And  all  their  shapes  of  death,  didst  save  the  lone  one, 

To  prove  to  earth  how  vainly  man  despairs 

While  God  is  in  the  heavens— I  cling  to  thee, 

As  Faith  unto  its  anchor  !  (to  Sir  Grey)  Back,  false  kinsman! 

I  tell  thee  Vy  vyan  lives — the  boy  is  guiltless  ! 

♦Evel.        Lady  M.        Beatjf.        Alton.        Sib  Grey.        Sia  Godfeey. 
k-  R-  c.  c.  l.  c.  L. 


4.cr  v.  57 

"  Falk.    Poor,  noble  maid  !     How  my  heart  bleeds  for  her  !  " 
Lady  M.    (starting  up).  Sentence   us  both!  or  stay, — would  law  con- 
demn 
A  child  so  young,  if  I  had  urged  him  to  it  1 
Sir  Godf.     Unnatural  mother,  hush  !     Sir  Grey,  to  yon, 
Perchance   ere  long,  bv.  lives  too  justly  forfeit, 
Raised     to  this  earldom,  1  entrust  these — prisoners,  (motions  to 
Halberdiers,  who  advance  to  arrest  Beaufort,  who  rises, 
and  Lady  Montreville.) 
Mars.  Oh,  day  of  woe  ! 
Sir  G.  Woe — yes  !     Make  way  for  us.  (trumpet.) 

Enter  Servant,  c.  d.  b. 

Seavant.   My  lord  of  Essex  just  hath  passed  the  gates  ; 
But  an  armed  knight  who  rode  beside  the  Earl, 
After  brief  question  to  the  crowd  without, 
Sprang    from    his   steed,   and   forces  here   his  way !    (trumpet 
flourish.) 

Enter  Vyvyan,  c.  d.  r.,  sn  armor,  his  visor  three  parts  down. 

Vyv.     Forgiveness  of  all  present ! 

Sir  Godf.  Who  art  thou  1 

Vyv.    A  soldier,  knighted  by  the  hand  of  Essex 

Upon  the  breach  of  Cadiz. 
Sir  Godf.  What  thy  business  1 

Vyv.    To  speak  the  truth.     Who  is  the  man  accused 

Of  Vyvyan's  murder'? 
Sir  G.  You  behold  him  yonder. 

Vyv.     'Tis  false. 

Sir  G.  (r.  front).  His  own  lips  have  confessed  his  crime. 
Vyv.    (throwing  down  his  gauntlet,  to  r.).  This  to  the  man  whose  crush- 
ing lie  bows  down 

Upon  the  mother's  bosom  lhat  young  head  ! 

Svy  you  "  confess'd!  "     Oh,  tender,  tender  conscience! 

Vyvyan,  rough  sailor,  galled  him  and  provoked  ; 

He  raised  his  hand.     To  the  sharp  verge  of  the  cliff 

Vyvyan  recoiled,  backed  by  an  outstretched  bough. 

The  bough  gave  way — he  fell,  but  not  to  perish  ; 

Saved  by  a  bush-grown  ledge  that  broke  his  fall ; 

Long  stunned  he  lay  ;  when  opening  dizzy  eyes, 

On  a  gray  crag  between  him  and  the  abyss 

He  saw  the  face  of  an  eld  pirate  foe  ; 

Saw  the  steel  lifted,  saw  it  flash  and  vanish, 

As  a  dark  mass  rushed  thro'  the  moonlit  air 

Dumb  into  deeps  below — the  indignant  soil 

Had  slid  like  glass  beneath  the  murderer's  feet, 

And  his  own  death-spring  whirled  him  to  his  doom. 

Then  Vyvyan  rose,  and,  crawling  down  the  rock, 

Stood  by  the  foe,  who,  stung  to  late  remorse 

By  hastening  death,  gasped  forth  a  dread  confession. 

The  bones  ye  find  are  those  of  Murder's  agent — 
Murder's  arch-schemer — Who  1     Ho  !  Grey  De  Malpas, 
Stand  forth  !    -Thou  art  the  man  ! 
Sir  Grey,    {aside,  vehemently).  Hemm'd  round  with  toils, 


O  1HE    UIGH'ITUL    lliAli. 

Soul,  crouch  no  more  !     (aloud)  Base  hireling,  di  ff  thy  mask.. 

And  my  sword  writes  the  lie  upon  tliy  front. 

By  Beaufort's  hand  died  Vyvyan — {draws  sword.) 
Vtv.  As  the  spell 

Shatters  the  sorcerer  when  his  fiends  desert  him, 

Let  thine  own  words  bring  doom  upon  thyself  ! 

Now  face   the   front  on  which  tr>  write  tiie  lie.  (removes  hemlet, 
taken  nicety  by  Pages.     Sir  Grey  drops  his  sword  and  staggers 
buck  into  the  arms  of  Marsden  and  ALTON,  K.  front. ) 
Evel.  Thou  liv'st,  thou  liv'st — (removes  white  from  her  checks  and  shows 

the  color.) 
Vtv.  (kneeling  to  her,  a).         Is  life  worth  something  still  1 
Sir  Grey.  Air,  air — my  staff — some  chord  seems  broken  here,  (press- 
ing his  heart.) 

Marsden,  your  lord  shot  his  poor  cousin's  dog  ; 

In  the  dog's    grave — mark  ! — bury  the   poor  cousin,  (sinks  ex- 
hausted, and  is  borne  out,  r.  2  e.) 
Vyy.  Mine  all  on  earth,  if  I  may  call  thee  mine. 
Eyel.  Thine,  thine,  thro'  life,  thro'  death — one  heart,  one  grave! 

"  I  knew  thou  wouldst  return,  for  I  have  lived 

In  thee  so  utterly,  thou  couldst  not  die 

And  I  live  still. — The  dial  needs  the  sun  ; 

But  love  reflects  the  image  of  the  loved, 

Tho'  every  beam  be  absent ! — Thine,  all  thine  !  " 
Lady  M.  My   place   is   forfeit   on  thy   breast,  not   his.  (pointing    tc 
Beaufort.) 

Clarence,  embrace  thy  brother,  and  my  first-born. 

His  rights  are  clear — my  love  for  thee  suppressed  them — 

He  may  forgive  me  yet — wilt  thou  ? 
Beau.  Forgive  thee ! 

Oh  mother,  what  is  rank  to  him  who  hath  stood 

Banished  from  out  the  social  pale  of  men, 

Bowed  like  a  slave,  and  trembling  as  a  felon  ? 

Heaven  gives  me  back  mine  ermine,  innocence  ; 

And  my  lost  dignity  of  manhood,  honor. 

I  miss  naught  else. — Room  there  for  me,  my  brother  ! 
Vyv.    Mother,  come  first ! — love  is  as  large  as  heaven ! 

"  Falk.  But  why  so  long 

Vtv.  What  !  could  I  face  thee,  friend, 

Or  claim  my  bride,  till  I  had  won  back  honor  1 

The  fleet  had  sailed — the  foeman  was  defeated — 

And  on  the  earth  I  laid  me  down  to  die. 
'    The  prince  of  England's  youth,  frankdiearted  Essex, 

Passed  by But  later  I  will  tell  you  how 

Pity  woke  question  ;  soldier  felt  for  soldier. 

Essex  then,  nobly  envying  Drake's  renown. 

Conceived  a  scheme,  kept  secret  till  our  clarions, 

Startling  the  towers  of  Spain,  told  earth  and  time 

How  England  answers  the  invader.     Clarence," 

Look  brother — I  have  won  the  golden  spurs  of  knighthood  ! 

For  worldly  gifts,  we'll  share  them — hush,  my  brother ; 

Love  me,  and  thy  gift  is  as  large  as  mine. 

Fortune  stints  gold  to  some  ;  impartial  Nature 

Shames  her  in  proffering  more  than  gold  to  all — 

Joy  in  the  sunshine,  beauty  on  the  earth, 

And  love  reflected  in  the  glass  of  conscience; 

Are  these  so  mean  7     Place  grief  r.nd  gui  t  beside  them, 


ACT    V. 


59 


P:    * 


Decked  in  a  sultan's  splendor,  and  compare ! 

The  world's- most  royal  he-itage  is  his 

Who  most  enjoys,  most  loves,  and  most  forgives. 

All  form  picture.     Music. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Villagers,  Servants. 

Marsden.  Sir  Godfrey. 

*  Vyyyan.  Lady  M.  * 

Alton.  *        Eveline.         *        Beaufort. 


CURTAIN  (slow). 

EXPLANATION  OF  THE  STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 

The  Actor  is  supposed  to  face  the  Audience. 


/ 


a.  3e. 


/ 


B.  13. 


/ 


/ 


SCENE. 


\ 


\ 


\ 


\ 


L.  IB. 


AUDIENCE. 


h.  Left. 

L.  0.  Left  Centre. 

l.  1  e.  <•  Left  First  Entrance. 

I..  2  e.  Left  Second  Entrance. 

l.  3  e.  .  Left  Third  Entrance. 

l.  v.  e.  Left  Upper  Entrance 

(wherever  this  Scene  may  be.) 

v.  l.  c.  Door  Left  Centre. 


C.  Centre. 

B.  Eight. 

e.  1  e.  Eight  First  Entrance. 

b.  2  e.  Right  Second  Entrance. 

B.  3  e.  Eight  Third  Entrance. 

b.  u.  e.  Eight  Upper  Entrance. 

d.  b.  c.  Door  Bight  Centre. 


WALPOLE. 


Copyright,  1875,  bt  Robert  M.  De  "Witt. 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

Thf  .Right  Hon.  ?m  Robert  Walpoi.b  (Member  of  the  English  Parliament,  Chan- 

cellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and  Trime  Minister  to  King  George  the  First). 
Johs  Veasey  (also  a  Member  of  Parliament,  and  his  Confidant). 
Sklden  Blount  (another  Member  of  Parliament,  and  a  very  active  and  powerful 

Leader  of  a  Party  in  strong  opposition  to  Walpole). 
Sir  Sidnky  Bm.i.air  (another  Member  of  Parliament— a  fashionable  and  wealthy 

young  Baronet,  and  also  an  opponent  to  Walpole). 
Lord  Nitusdai.e  (t  young  Scotch  Nobleman— a  firm  Jacobite  Supporter  of  tho 

'  Pretender). 
First  Jacobite  Loud      )   _  _ 

Second  Jacobite  Lord  ,  lSuPP°rter8  ot  the  Pretender). 
UVOS.  Wilmot  (an  Orphan,  and  the  Protege  of  Selden  Blount). 
Mrs.  Vizard  (a  widowed  matronly  Lady,  having  charge  of  Lucy,  and  in  the  pay  of 

Selden  Blount,  at  the  same  time  not  objecting  to  assist  the  Jacobite  Party). 
Coffee-House  Loungers,  Waiters,  Footmen,  Servants,  Newsmen,  etc. 


PERIOD  — 1717— the  commencement  of  the  reign  of  George  1.,  King  of  England. 


SCENERY  (English.) 
ACT  /.—Tom's  Coffee-House,  in,  London  in  4th  grooves. 


Open. 


:      Table.     ;      Table.     !     Table. 


:  :  :  :  c 


Closed  in.     ;  Table  and  Chairs. 
Fireplace.  (  *l     l» 


Table  and  Chair*. 

*LZN        B 


Open. 


Opan. 


The  walls  in  panelling,  dark  red  oak  u  few  named  oil  paintings,  portrait  ol  Queen 
Anne,  Marlborough,  Charles  I.,  alter  Vandyke,  the  Batue  01  liienneiUi,  etc.  ;  BWt- 
uette  of  Bacchus,  print  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  smoking;  a  iraiuea  set  ui  cimons  to- 
bacco-pipes arranged  as  a  trophy  ;  East  Indian  curiosities ;  a  stuffed  raccoon,  a 
handbill  on  a  nail:  "  Distressed  Mother. ...His  Majesty's  Servants.... Prices  of  the 
Places,"  a  handbill  "  £25  Reward.  Whereas  certain know  u  tor  their  excess- 
es  Mohocks  did  set  upon maltreat.... rolled   the  said   Sarah  Frost,  in  a 

hogshead,  down  Holborn  Hill.... on  the  night  of...."  Old  muskets  and  swords 
crossed,  over  fireplace,  under  a  map.  A,  A,  A,  A,  partitions  of  panelled  oak,  five 
feet  high,  making  small  rooms  or  "  boxes,"  of  the  space  between  them,  in  which  is  a 
table  with  a  seat  running  around  three  sides  of  each  box.  C,  stairs  leading  off  up  from, 
stage.  K.  u.  e.,  open  for  Waiters  to  exit  as  to  kitchen,  for  coffee,  etc.  L.  2  f.., 
double  door.  B,  a  bar,  with  oyster  patties,  meat  pies,  newspapers,  books,  tobacco 
jars,  red,  with  gilt  Arms  of  Great  Britain  on  them,  and  "  Tom's  "  in  black  letters  • 
a  public  snuff-box,  large.  E,  a  cheval  glass,  on  a  stand,  in  which  the  Loungers  loob 
before  going  off  l.  d.     Curtains  to  th-  boxes,  red. 


ACT  II. -Sc  ne  i—  Room  in  2d  grooves 
writing  materials,  etc. 

Scene  //.—Room  in  2d  grooves. 


AYALPOLK.  3 

Portraits  on  wall  ;  rich  tables  ;  ch  iir-  ; 


Secret  Door. 


Door,  j 


Window 


Door. 


A,  a  clock.    Balcony  outside  of  window. 
Stone  ///.—Outside  of  a  House,  court  and  garden  wall  in  5th  grooves. 


Open. 


£.       A 


Landscape.  ■  ; 

:  ';  Wall. 

A      a    :: 

*         *        *         *        *       :  :  . .  .Tree. 


Wall. 


Door. 


Window. 


Open. 

•••Tree. 3 

Wall. 

Tree.  2 


On  flat,  view  of  housetops,  with  a  park  of  trees  between.  4th  groove  Una,  a  row  of 
biue  posts,  set  near  enough  to  prevent  a  cart  passing  between  them,  four  feet  high. 
L.  v.  e.,  closed  m  by  a  garden  wall  or  hedge.  L.  1  and  2  E.,  a  garden  wall,  six  feet 
high,  With  spikes  on  top,  and  a  creeping  plant,  R.  3  E.,  a  low  wall.  E.  1  and  2  ^., 
a  set  house  front,  on  the  ground  floor  a  window,  1  e.,  and  d.  2  e.  above  it,  a  practica- 
ble window  with  balcony.  B,  iron  railing,  with  posts  to  the  door,  with  lamps,  and 
iron  sockets,  such  as  were  used  as  extinguishers  for  torches. 

ACT  III.— Seine  /.—St.  James's  Park  in  1st  grooves  (or  can  be  painted  on  canvas 
to  roll  up) ;  two  benches  to  be  pushed  on  n.  and  L.  Sunset  effect.  Tree  wings.  Sky 
sink  and  borders. 

Scene  //.—Same  as  Scene  /.,  Act  II.,  in  2d  grooves. 

Scene  ///.-Samo  as  Scene  II.,  Act  II.,  but  set  in  3d  grooves  instead  of  2d. 


PROPERTIES. 

ACT  1  •  Trays  ;  plates  ;  blue  china  cups  and  saucers  ;  chocolate  dishes  :  eatable  ; 
a  joint  of  meat,  a  ham,  some  preserves,  on  bar ;  pipes,  tobacco,  etc.  Act  II.- 
Scene  1st  Writing  materials,  books  and  papers  on  table  ;  three  chairs.  Scene 
id  :  A  purse,  filled  ;  poker  ;  hand-bell.  Scene  3d:  Pebbles.  Act  ZH.-Scene  1st: 
Note  Scene  2d:  Note  as  before  candles  in  candle-sticks  ;  book  on  table  ; 
hand-bell  pocket-book.  Seme  3d:  Lamr  ;  miniature  for  Lucy  ;  note-book ; 
key. 


"WAirOI.F. 


COSTUMES. 

Walpole.— Act  I :  Square-cut  coat  and  long-flapped  waistcoat  of  dark-colored 
cloth  ,  the  cuffs  of  the  coat  broad  and  trimmed  with  lace  ;  silk  hose  drawn  up 
high  over  the  knees  so  as  to  join  the  breeches,  of  a  similar  material  to  the  coat, 
underneath  the  waistcoat  flaps ;  while  lace  neckcloth  with  long  ends ;  three- 
cornered  hat,  black,  with  the  sides  turned  up;  long  curled  wig;  high-heeled 
shoes,  and  buckles;  fob  watch,  seals,  snuff-box,  and  court  sword.  Act  I!.  :  A 
rich  suit  of  similar  style  to  the  above  of  dark-blue  velvet,  embroidered  with 
gold  ;  lace  ruffles,  etc. ;  white  silk  stockings.  Act  III. :  Same  as  Act  1,  with  a 
dark-colored  roquelaure  to  throw  over  him. 

Selden  Blount. — A  similar  style  of  dress  to  that  worn  by  Walpole,  of  a  claret- 
colored  velvet ;  black  silk  stockings ;  lace  ruffles ;  court  sword  ;  high-heeled 
shoes,  etc. ,  rich  snuff-box. 

Bellair. — A  rich  showy  dress  of  the  same  style,  but  of  light-blue  velvet,  with  rich 
lace  ruffles  and  lace  neckcloth  ;  richly-embroidered  waistcoat  ;  light-colored 
wig;  laced  hat;  white  silk  stockings,  with  breeches  of  the  same  material  as  the 
coat;  high-heeled  shoes,  and  buckles;  handsome  court  sword,  and  jewelled 
snuff-box. 

Lord  Nithsdale. — Scarlet  velvet  coat,  waistcoat,  and  breeches;  black  silk  stock- 
ings; shoes  and  buckles;  wig  of  long  black  hair  like  a  woman's ;  lace  ruffles 
and  neckcloth  ;  a  gray  gown  with  red  flowers  upon  it,  and  a  black  cloth  mantle, 
trimmed  with  ermine,  for  the  disguise  in  Scene  2,  Act  2,  to  be  followed  by  a 
dark  gown,  and  a  mantle  with  a  hood  to  it. 

Veasey.— A  similar  style  of  dress  to  Walpole's  dress  in  Act  1,  but  of  black  cloth 
or  quiet-colored  material,  with  black  silk  hose,  shoes,  buckles,  hat,  sword,  etc. 

Jacobite  Lords.— Similar  dresses  to  Lord  Nithsdale;  short  wig :  swords;  hats, 
and  short  cloaks  of  dark  velvet  to  throw  over  their  dresses. 

Loungers  in  the  Coffee  Uodse. — Dresses  of  various  materials,  but  all  of  a  similar 
style,  some  more  showy  than  others  ;  wigs,  some  long  and  some  short;  swords, 
gold-headed  canes,  etc.,  so  as  to  give  variety  to  the  scene. 

Footmen  and  Servants. — Silk  stockings,  shoes,  and  buckles;  black,  and  blue 
breeches;  claret-colored  coats,  with  silver  buttons;  white  neckcloths;  short 
wigs. 

Waiters. — Black  sleeveless  waistcoats  and  knee-breeches,  of  dark  material ;  white 
stockings  ;  shoes  and  buckles ;  long  white  aprons,  white  neckcloths,  and  long 
skirts  to  coats. 

Lucy  Wilmot. — Plain  embroidered  silk  dress  of  amber  color,  with  looped  skirt ; 
white  petticoat ;  shoes  and  buckles  ;  loose  sleeves,  with  lace  undersleeves  ;  hair 
in  curls. 

Mrs.  Vizard. — A  full  old-fashioned  style  of  dress,  of  dark  flowered  silk  ;  shoes  and 
buckles;  cap  trimmed  with  lace;  small  shawl  to  throw  over  shoulders;  small 
lace  trimming  to  the  sleeves  ;  a  small  patch  of  black  court-plaister  near  the 
mouth  and  on  one  cheek  ;  hair  bound  up  in  close  curls.  In  the  3d  Act,  cloak, 
with  hood. 


TIME  OF  PLAYING— ONE  HOUR  AND  THREE  QUARTERS. 


WALPOLK. 


STORY  OF  THE  FLAT  AND  REMARKS. 

In  the  present  instance,  dealing  -with  an  unacted  play,  it  has  heen  thought  desir- 
able and  advisable  to  deviate  from  the  plan  previously  followed  of  giving  the  Story 
and  Remarks  separately,  and  in  this  case  to  amalgamate  them  as  being  a  course 
more  likely  to  supply  a  better  understanding  of  the  plot  of  the  piece,  the  characters 
introduced,  and  the  position  of  affairs  at  the  period  selected  tor  the  story  of  the 
comedy. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  London  in  the  year  1717,  in  the  third  year  of  the  reign  of  George 
the  First.  For  years  the  whole  country  had  been  put  to  much  trouble  by  attempts 
made  both  iu  Scotland  and  England,  as  also  in  France,  to  place  upon  the  throne,  one 
Charles  Stuart,  who  claimed  to  be  a  lineal  descendant  of  James  the  Second,  King  of 
England  (who  abdicated  the  throne  in  16S8),  and  who,  as  such  descendant,  considered 
himself  entitled  to  wear  the  crown.  He  was  known  throughout  the  country  by  the 
cognomen  of  "  The  Pretender,"  and  his  adherents  were  denominated  "Jacobites," 
from  Jacobus,  the  Latin  for  James.  His  claims  were  supported  by  numerous  pow- 
erful factions  both  in  France  and  other  countries,  and  by  many  noblemen  and  gentle- 
men of  wealth  and  distinction  ;  but  although  his  cause  was  honestly  and  bravely 
advocated,  it  was  compelled  to  succumb  to  the  sovereign  power,  and  was  finally  ex- 
tinguished. So  far  then  as  is  necessary  to  explain  the  terms  used  in  the  play  in  con- 
nection with  the  character  of  Lord  Nithsdale  and  his  confederates  ;  the  next  point 
to  be  touched  upon  is  the  political  position. 

The  >egislature  of  England  is  divided  into  two  parts:  the  House  of  Lords,  com- 
posed of  members  of  the  peerage,  who  are  entitled  to  that  position  by  right  of  birth, 
royal  decree,  or  from  occupying  the  position  of  a  Bishop  or  Archbishop  of  the  Pro- 
testant church  ;  and  the  House  of  Commons,  which  is  composed  of  gentlemen  elected 
by  the  people  of  the  various  towns  and  cities.  They  amount  (at  the  present  time) 
to  over  600  in  number,  and  so  long  as  they  hold  the  appointment  (to  which,  it  may  be 
mentioned,  there  is  no  pay  attached,  the  honor  of  the  position  and  the  patronage  it 
affords  being  considered  an  ample  equivalent  for  the  expenses  of  election  and  the 
labor  attending  the  performance  of  the  duties  belonging  to  it)  they  are  entitled  to  put 
the  letters  M.P.  after  their  name,  signifying  their  position  as  Members  of  Parlia- 
ment. The  House  of  Commons  has  absolute  control  over  the  expenditure  of  the 
funds  of  the  country,  the  levying  of  taxes,  and  the  collection  of  the  National  Beve- 
nues  from  all  sources ;  hence  it  is,  no  matter  which  political  party  is  in  power,  the 
leader  of  that  party  is  generally  appointed  to  the  post  of  Chancellor  of  the  Exche- 
quer, or  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  and  holds  the  position  of  Prime  Minister,  or 
chief  adviser  to  the  reigning  sovereign. 

After  all  the  elections  have  been  made,  the  members  assemble,  and  continue  sit- 
ting in  Parliament  for  a  certain  number  of  years  (at  the  time  of  the  play  it  was  three, 
it  is  now  seven),  at  the  end  of  which  period  it  is  dissolved,  and  a  new  election  takes 
place  all  over  the  country,  which  is  termed  a  "  General  Election."  This,  however, 
only  applies  to  the  House  of  Commons,  the  members  of  the  House  of  Lords  holding 
their  positions  for  life.  But  instead  of  waiting  for  the  natural  expiration  of  the 
term  for  sitting,  the  Prime  Minister,  if  he  should  be  defeated  upon  any  important 
question,  has  the  power  of  causing  the  House  of  Commons  to  be  dissolved,  and  a 
general  election  to  be  had  before  the  specified  time,  in  the  hopes  of  turning  out  some 
of  his  opponents  and  bringing  in  persons  who  are  favorable  to  him,  so  that  when  the 
new  Parliament  meets,  he  can  be  certain  of  a  sufficient  number  of  votes  to  carry 
any  measures  he  may  propose.  These  explanations  are  necessary  to  show  the  im- 
mense power  wielded  by  Walpole  and  the  meaning  of  his  allusion  to  a  general  elec- 
tion in  the  first  scene  of  the  Second  Act. 

Again,  the  members  of  both  Houses  of  Parliament  are  divided  into  different  par- 
ties, bearing  names  identifying  the  particular  principles  they  advocate.  At  the 
period  in  question,  there  Were  only  two  classes,  known  as  Whigs  and  Tories :  terms 
which  originated  in  England  during  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First  or  Second.  Those 
who  supported  the  king  in  his  high,  exacting,  and  oppressive  claims  were  called  Tories, 


G  KICHELIEU. 

Upon  this  information,  B  iradas  endeavors  to  induce  him  to  side  against  the  Car- 
dinal, but  1)3  Miuprat  knows  his  immense  powjr  and  is  proof  against  the  tempta- 
tion ;  whereupon,  B  iradas  hints  artfully,  that  he  loves  the  beautiful  Julie  de  Mor- 
temar,  an  orphan,  under  the  Cardinal's  protection,  of  whom  he  is  himself  deeply 
enamored.  The  shot  is  well  aimed  ;  De  Mauprat  confesses  to  possess  an  antipathy  to 
Richelieu,  and  at  the  same  time  admits  his  love  for  Julie — at  this  moment  the  order 
for  his  arrest  arrives,  and  before  further  treaty  can  be  made,  he  is  conducted  away. 

Baradas  rejoices  ;  in  youth,  strength  valor,  and  now  in  love  he  had  always  been 
DeMauprat's  inferior— but  with  his  rival  removed,  success  lay  before  him.  Although 
the  King,  it  was  rumored,  also  loved  Julie,  he  was  determined  to  wed  her— to  be- 
come Minister  of  France— and  by  the  aid  of  the  parchment,  when  signed,  and  the 
assistance  of  the  Due  de  Bouillon  and  the  Spanish  Army  he  would  accomplish ; 
dethrone  the  King,  and  "  all  in  despite  of  my  Lord  Cardinal." 

The  scene  then  shifts  to  ltichelieu's  palace,  where  Joseph,  a  Capuchin  monk,  and 
his  confidant,  is  acquainting  him  of  the  traitorous  plot  that  is  in  progress  -the  par- 
ties concerned  in  it,  and  further,  that  the  King  has  been  charmed  by  Julie.  Riche- 
lieu is  grieved  to  hear  this,  bat  with  a  firm  conceit  and  consciousness  of  his  extraor- 
dinary power,  he  declares  emphatically  that  the  King  must  have  no  goddess  bul  the 
State— and  that  State  must  be— himself  !  Nothing  daunted,  Joseph  asserts  that 
the  King,  to  conceal  his  love,  and  to  bring  Julie  near  him,  intends  to  cause  her  to  be 
married  to  Baradas.  Richelieu  determines  to  thwart  this  sacrifice,  and  vows  that 
the  only  clasp  round  the  neck  of  B  iradas  shall  be  the  axe,  and  not  the  arms  of  his 
ward. 

Julie  arrives,  and  dispatching  Joseph  to  his  prayers,  Richelieu  feelingly  tells  her 
of  her  father's  friendship,  who,  dying  bequeathed  her  to  his  care,  and  that  she  shall 
rind  in  him  a  second  father,  who  will  confer  upon  her  a  dowry  of  wealth,  rank,  and 
love  worthy  of  the  highest  station.  He  closely  aud  skillfully  questions  her  of  the 
attentions  paid  her  by  the  King,  Baradas  and  other  courtiers,  but  without  produc- 
ing any  effect,  when  Huguet,  one  of  his  officers,  but  also  a  spy  against  him,  announ- 
ces that  the  Chevalier  de  Mauprat  waits  an  audience.  Julie,  thrown  off  her  guard, 
starts  at  the  name,  and  the  Cardinal  quickly  detects  the  implied  confession  of  love. 

He  commands  her  to  look  higher  for  a  match,  and  warns  her  that  if  she  hates  his 
foes,  she  must  hate  De  Mauprat ;  but  she  makes  such  an  earnest  appeal  that  his 
sternness  is  disarmed,  and  he  consents  to  blot  out  Ins  name  from  his  list  of  foes. 

Dismissing  her  into  an  adjoining  chamber,  he  summons  De  Mauprat  to  his  pres- 
ence ;  earnestly  he  reminds  him  of  all  the  past  events,  and  rebukes  him  bitterly  for 
having  since  his  return  passed  his  time  in  wild  and  reckless  living,  and  in  a  keen 
and  smartly-telling  speech,  shows  him  that  to  live  upon  the  means  and  labors  of 
others,  without  the  prospect  of  repaying  them,  is  simply  trickery  and  theft.  His 
debts  must  be  paid ;  but  when  De  M  uiprat,  answering  boldly,  says  that  he  is  ready 
to  do  so,  but  he  should  be  glad  to  know  where  he  can  borrow  the  money,  the  humor 
of  the  Cardinal  is  touched,  his  severity  relaxed,  and  he  perceives  at  once  that  the 
Chevalier  is  exactly  the  man  to  serve  the  schemes  he  has  in  view,  and  prove  a  friend. 

In  one  of  the  finest  speeches  in  the  play  he  tells  him,  though  men  say  he  is  cruel, 
he  is  not  so  ;  he  is  just,  and  portrays  how  he  has  reconstructed  France,  and  from 
sloth  and  crime,  raised  her  to  wealth  and  power;  that  France  needs  his  aid — and 
though  he  came  to  meet  him  as  a  foe,  he  shall  depart  as  a  friend,  with  honor  and 
wealth  in  store.  De  Mauprat  is,  very  naturally,  completely  astounded  at  this  sud- 
den change  ;  under  arrest,  he  came  to  the  interview  witli  the  belief  that  after  it,  he 
should  proceed  to  the  Bastile  and  thence  to  the  scaffold  ;  instead  of  which,  there 
comes  an  offer  of  friendship  and  favor,  nay,  more,  the  Cardinal  tells  him  he  is  aware 
of  his  love  for  Julie,  and  offers  her  in  marriage.  De  Mauprat,  feeling  that  the  sen- 
tence of  death  still  hangs  over  him,  and  that  honor  forbids  the  wedding,  refuses. 
In  apparent  anger,  the  Cardinal  directs  his  removal  to  the  adjoining  chamber 
(whither  he  has  already  sent  Julie),  and  with  mock  solemnity  bids  him  prepare  to 
behold  his  execution— that  his  doom  will  be  private — and  to  seek  speedily  for 
Heaven's  mercy. 


RICHELIEU.  / 

Summoning  Joseph,  the  Cardinal  gives  orders  for  the  preparation  of  the  neces- 
sary deeds,  and  the  arrangement  of  his  house  near  the  Luxembourg  Palace,  as  a 
bridal  present  for  his  ward.  Returning,  overwhelmed  with  surprise  and  joy,  De 
Mauprat  and  Julie  receive  his  congratulations,  and  upon  their  departure,  another 
brief  but  eloquent  and  thrilling  speech,  tells  of  the  great  man's  power  and  his  sou!- 
binding,  ardent  love  for  his  country. 

"  France  !  I  love  thee  ! 
All  earth  aha  1  never  pluck  thee  from  my  hand ! 
My  mistress,  France — my  wedded  wife — sweet  France, 
Who  shall  proclaim  divorce  for  thee  and  me  ?" 

But  the  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth,  aud  De  Mauprat's  case  is  no  ex- 
ception. Baradas  lias  learned  of  the  marriage — told  the  King,  thus  making  him  a 
foe  to  the  husband,  and  exercising  his  influence,  procures  a  royal  warrant,  fori  i  1- 
dicg  De  Mauprat  communicating  with  Julie  by  word  or  letter,  and  so  to  continue 
until  the  formal  annulment  of  the  marriage  is  obtained,  it  being  illegal.  The  sen- 
tence of  death  was  still  in  force;  Julie  was  a  lady  of  the  Court,  and  as  such,  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  France,  could  not  lawfully  be  married  without  the  King's  permis- 
sion. Armed  with  this  order,  Baradas  repairs  to  De  Mauprat's  house  immediately 
after  the  wedding,  and  meeting  him,  artfully  and  skillfully  points  out,  that  all  which 
has  taken  place  is  only  part  of  a  wily,  ambitious  scheme  of  Richelieu's — the  King 
loves  Julie— to  encourage  this  will  increase  the  Cardinal's  position  and  power— to 
avoid  scandal  she  must  first  be  married  to  some  one,  and  in  selecting  Da  Mauprat, 
he  had  gratified  two  passions — ambition,  by  the  gTandeur  of  his  ward,  and  vengeance 
by  the  dishonor  of  his  foe.  So  skillfully,  and  with  such  subtlety  is  the  story  to'd 
that  De  Mauprat  believes  it;  his  anger  is  unbounded— again  the  tempter  strikes, 
calling  upon  him  to  join  the  conspiracy  ;  with  Richelieu  dead,  and  Baradas  Prime 
Minister,  all  will  be  forgotten  Maddened  with  the  thoughts  of  how  basely  he  has 
been  deceived,  De  Mauprat  refuses  to  listen,  and  quits  the  spot;  hut  not  to  escape. 
Another  meeting  is  to  take  place  to-night,  when  the  compact  is  to  be  signed  by  all 
the  League  and  forwarded  to  the  Due  de  Bouillon.  Baradas  determines  that  of 
this  dispatch  De  Mauprat  is  to  know  nothing — beshall  merely  be  posted  as  a  sentry 
at  the  door — but  he  shall  be  the  murderer  of  the  Cardinal.  At  this  moment,  De 
Mauprat  returns  in  a  perfect  state  of  frenzy.  He  has  seen  the  King's  carriage  pass, 
and  in  the  blindness  of  his  passion,  imagines  he  saw  within  it — Julie  !  Baradas 
promptly  seizes  the  golden  opportunity,  and  assures  him  that  it  was  so.  Mad  with 
vengeance,  De  Mauprat  believes  him,  consents  to  join  the  conspiracy,  and  swears 
that  only  the  blood  of  Richelieu  can  obliterate  the  stain  cast  upon  his  honor. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Joseph  has  learned  more  of  the  proceedings,  the  plot  for  the  as- 
sassination, and  the  intended  meeting.  The  story  rouses  up  all  the  latent  energy  of 
.he  great  Minister  ;  he  speaks  in  glowing  terms  of  the  exploits  of  his  youth,  and 
bids  his  page  bring  to  him  the  double-handed  sword  he  once  wielded  with  such 
force  and  skill.  Alas  !  the  strength  of-  youth  lias  fled.  Sinking  into  his  chair,  ho 
grasps  his  pen — that  is  now  his  weapon— and  ruled  by  a  master  hand — 

"  The  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword  1'' 

Marion  arrives  with  further  news  of  the  meeting,  and  with  the  intimation  that 
the  Duke  of  Orleans  had  requested  her  to  find  a  messenger  upon  whose  fidelity  she 
could  rely,  to  convey  dispatches  that  night  to  the  Due  de  Bouillon  ;  and  she  had 
promised  to  send  her  brother.  This  is  but  a  subterfuge  to  assist  the  Cardinal,  to 
whom  she  leaves  the  selection ;  he  chooses  his  favorite  page,  Francois,  as  being 
voung,  unnoted,  faithful,  brave,  ambitious.  He  instructs  him  to  arm  himself,  fol- 
low Marion,  obtain  the  packet,  and  upon  the  fleetest  steed  lie  can  procure,  bring  it 
to  the  Castle  of  Ruelle,  whither  the  Cardinal  intends  to  go  for  safety.  He  then 
questions  Joseph  as  to  the  faithfulness  of  Huguet,  who,  unnoticed,  enters,  and  over- 
hears their  conversation,  by  which  he  learns  that  certain  honors  he  is  expecting  are 
to  be  promised  to  him  but  not  granted.  Breathing  vengeance  he  retires  unob- 
served ;  but  returns  shortly  to  receive  instructions  from  the  Cardinal  to  take  steps 


8  WALPOLE. 

Commons,  where  the  members  have  the  pleasure  occasionally  of  badgering  and  bait* 
ing  the  Prime  Minister.  Veasey  perceives  very  plainly  there  is  no  chance  of  winning 
him  over  in  that  way,  and  retires  to  consider  what  other  scheme  is  likely  to  suit  hia 
leader's  purpose. 

At  an  interview  which  follows,  between  Bellair  and  Blount,  the  former  jokes  the 
latter  upon  having  seen  him  the  previous  evening,  muffled  up  in  his  cloak,  huir.\ing 
up  the  court  leading  to  Mrs.  Vizard's  house.  Blount  is  astounded  at  Bellair  having 
any  knowledge  of  this  person,  but  the  more  so  when  he  mentions  the  name  of  the 
young  lady  in  her  charge,  and  relates  the  circumstances  under  which  he  became 
acquainted  with  her,  confessing  frankly  that  he  is  deeply  in  love  with  her,  and  that 
although  forbidden  the  house,  he  visits  the  neighborhood  every  day  and  exchanges 
salutations  from  the  window.  ITe  begs  Blount — who  admits  that  he  knows  the  par- 
ties—to make  him  acquainted  with  her  history;  but  Blount  excuses  himself,  assur- 
ing Bell  lir  that  she  is  of  very  humble  origin,  and  vastly  beneath  him  in  position. 
But  the  young  baronet  is  not  to  be  put  off  so  easily  ;  he  aassures  Blount  that  his  love 
is  genuine  and  honorable,  and  he  makes  him  promise  to  mention  the  matter  to  Lucy 
and  to  plead  his  cause 

Walpole's  plan  for  the  escape  of  Nithsdale  turns  out  as  he  expecteded,  and  he  is 
just  in  receipt  of  the  information  when  Blount  calls  upon  him,  and  lie  takes  the 
opportunity  of  soiinding  him. 

This  interview  is  most  admirably  described  ;  in  witty,  sharp,  and  well  chosen  lan- 
guage, W'alpo'.e  boldly  opens  up  his  plan  for  saving  the  nation,  offering  place  and 
patronage  in  return  for  the  support  of  Blount  and  his  party,  and  pushing  pen  and 
paper  towards  him  to  write  his  own  terms.  Blount  does  so,  and  with  a  low  bow 
hands  his  reply  to  Walpole,  striding  haughtily  away.  To  his  chagrin,  the  minister 
finds  written  down  : 

"  'Mongat  the  men  who  are  bought  to  save  England  inscribe  me, 
And  my  bribe  is  the  head  of  the  man  who  would  bribe  me  !" 
But  Walpole  is  not  to  be  beaten  so  easily  ;  certainly  to  threaten  impeachment 
and  desire  the  forfeit  of  his  head  is  rather  high,  and,  at  the  same  lime,  rather  objec* 
tionable  ambition,  and  he  observes,  facetiously: 

"  So  he  calls  himself  honest !     What  highwayman's  worse 
Thus  to  threaten  my  life  when  I  offer  my  purse  ? 
Hem  !  he  can't  be  in  debt,  as  the  common  talk  runs, 
For  the  man  who  scorns  money  has  never  known  duns ; 
And  jet  have  him  I  must !     Shall  I  force  or  entice? 
Let  me  think— let  me  think  ;  every  man  has  his  price." 
It  so  happens  that  Mrs.  Vizard's  house  is  not  only  an  asylum  for  Lucy,  but  is  also 
a  meeting  place  for  some  of  the  Jacobite  leaders.     Accordingly,  upon  making  his 
escape,  disguised  in  his  wife's  garments,*  Nithsdale  is  conducted  there  by  his  con- 
federates, who  represent  him  as  the  wife  of  one  of  their  party  now  in  exile,  and 
that  they  are  seeking  to  hide  her  until  sunset,  when  she  will  be  able  to  make  her 
way  down  to  the  river  and  get  on  board   a  vessel  bound  for  France.     Mrs.  Vizard 
agrees  to  this,  and  they  arrange  to  send  a  carriage  at  sunset,  when  a  stone  thrown 
up  at  the  window  shall  be  the  signal  that  a  trusty  messenger  is  in  waiting. 

They  are  interrupted  by  a  knocking  at  the  door,  and  effect  a  hasty  retreat  by 
a  secret  passage,  as  Mrs.  Vizard  conceals  Nithsdale,  and  calmly  receives  the  un- 
looked  for  visit  of  Selden  Blount.  In  a  very  tew  words  he  tells  her  he  has  heard  of 
the  occurrence  which  took  place  on  the  return  from  church,  and  directs  that  Lucy 
shall  be  sent  to  him  and  that  they  shall  be  left  alone.  In  a  very  pretty  speech,  he 
points  out  to  his  protege  the  danger  of  an  intimacy  with  such  a  gay  gallant  as  Sir  Sid- 

*  The  visit  of  Lord  Nithsdale's  wife,  as  mentioned  in  the  play,  is  not  historically 
correct.  He  and  six  other  lords  were  arrested  for  treason  as  supporting  the  rebel- 
1  ion,  all  but  one  pleaded  guilty.  Nithsdale  and  two  others  were  ordered  for  immedi- 
ate execution  ;  but  the  night  before  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  escape  in  clothes 
which  his  mother  brought  him.     The  others  were  beheaded  the  next  morning. 


WALPOLK.  9 

ney  Bellair,  anil  pictures  to  her  the  joy  and  happiness  of  a  beautiful  cottage  and 
gardens  where,  as  soon  as  lie  is  daily  freed  from  the  toil  of  business,  he  can  share 
with  her  love,  name  and  fortune.  Completely  overcome  by  this  sudden  avowal, 
Lucy  withdraws  to  her  chamber,  whilst  Blount  considering  the  matter  settled,  bids 
Mrs.  Vizard  prepare  for  departure,  as  he  is  going  at  once  in  search  of  a  parson.  At 
this  moment  a  newsman  passing  through  the  street,  calls  out  the  intelligence  of  the 
escape  of  Nithsdale,  and  the  offer  of  one  thousand  guineas  for  his  apprehension.  As 
she  listens  to  the  description  of  the  dress,  it  strikes  Mrs.  Vizard  that  her  guest  is 
the  escaped  lor.l,  and  she  determines  to  lock  up  both  him  and  Lucy  whilst  she  has- 
tens logive  the  infoimation  and  secure  the  reward.  Bat  Lucy,  overhearing  Blount 
tell  Mrs.  Vizard  to  lock  the  door  safely,  slips  out  and  conceals  herself  behind  the 
window  curtains  as  her  guardian  carefully  fastens  the  door  of  the  empty  chamber. 
As  soon  as  she  is  gone,  Lucy  is  alarmed  by  a  violent  rapping  at  the  outer  door  of 
the  apartment,  and  before  she  can  recover  from  her  fright,  it  is  burst  open  and 
Nithsdale  appears.  In  a  few  hurried  words  he  excuses  his  disguise  to  Lucy,  as  his 
companions  did  to  Mrs.  Vizard,  and  urges  her  to  furnish  him  with  other  clothes ; 
she  tells  him  that  her  chamber  door  is  fastened,  when,  with  an  abruptness  which 
startles  her,  he  produces  a  very  effective  key  in  the  shape  of  a  poker  which  has 
already  opened  one  door  and  now  does  duty  a  second  time.  He  obtains  a  hood,  gown, 
and  mantle,  for  which  he  warmly  thanks  and  kisses  Lucy,  who,  astonished  and  be- 
wildered at  his  Amazonian  conduct,  innocently  remarks, 

"  What  a  wonderful  girl !"  , 

Bellair,  anxious  to  know  the  result  of  Blount's  labors  in  his  behalf,  hastens  in  his 
carriage  towards  Mrs.  Vizard's  house,  and  leaving  it  close  by,  meets  with  Blount,  who 
is  vainly  endeavoring  to  rind  a  parson.  Blount  assures  him  that  Lucy  has  rejected  his 
off  t  and  promised  her  hand  to  another,  and  leaving  him  to  reflect  upon  the  intelli- 
gence, goes  upon  his  search.  But  Bellair  determines  to  know  the  truth  from  Lucy's 
own  lips,  and  accordingly,  as  he  perceives  some  one  at  the  window,  throws  up  a 
pebble.  This  is  the  agreed  Jacobite  signal,  so  Nithsdale  jumps  down  into  the  arras 
of  Bellair,  who,  believing  it  to  be  Lucy,  attempts  a  kiss,  only  to  receive  a  smart  box 
on  the  ears.  Although  somewhat  staggered  at  such  a  reception,  he  vows  that  he 
will  not  be  baffled,  and  raises  the  hood  ;  a  struggle  follows,  and  he  declares  unless  an 
explanation  is  given  that  he  will  call  for  the  watch.  Nithsdale  speaks  out  boldly, 
and  avows  that  he  owes  his  life  to  Lucy,  imploring  him  to  save  or  sell  him  quickly 
Bellair  determines  to  do  the  former,  and  though  he  thus  risks  his  own  life  by  aiding 
the  escape  of  a  rebel,  the  mention  of  Lucy's  name  overcomes  all  scruples  ;  lie  escorts 
Nithsdale  to  the  carriage  and  starts  him  off  to  the  river  side.  Returning  he  meets 
Lucy  at  the  window,  and  earnestly  pleading  his  love,  vowing  eternal  constancy  and 
truth,  he  gains  her  promise  to  elope  with  him  that  night. 

Blount  succeeds  at  last  in  finding  a  parson,  and  he  determines  that  after  a  brief 
honeymoon  lie  will  return  to  his  seat  in  Parliament,  and  there  taunt  Walpole  with 
the  bribes  he  offered.  Whilst  thus  laying  down  plans  for  future  action,  Bellair,  full 
of  gayety  and  delight,  happens  to  meet  him  and  tells  him  of  his  plans  for  running  off 
with  Lucy,  and  begs  him  to  attend  at  his  house  and  give  her  away,  having  arranged 
for  two  of  his  aunts  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony.  At  this  moment  one  of  the 
Jacobite  lords  enters,  and  requesting  a  few  minutes  private  conversation  with  Bel- 
lair, hands  to  him  a  letter  of  thanks  from  Nithsdale.  Veasey  arriving,  observes  the 
two  in  conversation,  and  knowing  the  Jacobite,  watches  them  closely.  Bellair  tells 
Blount,  never  suspecting  him,  to  beware  of  Mrs  Vizard,  as  she  has  attempted  to 
surrender  Nithsdale,  whom  he  confesses  to  having  assisted  in  his  escape,  in  proof  of 
which  he  shows  the  letter  just  rec-ived.  Blount  reads  it  carefully,  advises  him 
to  be  cautious  in  concealing  it,  and  pretending  to  place  the  important  document  in 
Bellaii's  pocket,  but  letting  it  drop,  as  the  young  baronet  hurries  away,  picks 
it  up. 

Now  then  is  the  time  to  turn  the  tables  upon  his  rival ;  he  informs  Veasey  of  the 
discovery  he  has  made,  and  it  is  determined  that  a  warrant  shall  be  at  once  issued 
for  the  arrest  of  Bellair,  which  will  enable  Blount  to  secure  Lucy. 


10  KICHELIETJ. 

In  the  last  scene,  we  find  the  Court  and  all  the  leading  conspirators  assembled, 
laying  plans  for  future  operations. 

The  King-,  thinking  she  has  changed  her  views,  grants  an  audience  to  Julie,  but 
she  comes  to  appeal  for  her  husband's  pardun,  which  she  does  in  exquisitely  written, 
eloquent,  and  fervent  language. 

The  King  is  moved,  and  directs  Baradas  to  speak  with  her.  He  does  so,  and  of- 
fers that  if  she  will  annul  the  marriage  aud  become  his  wife,  the  same  day  shall  D  j 
Maupratbe  free.  "With  scorn  and  indignation,  the  chance  is  rejected,  upon  which 
he  summons  the  guards  and  their  prisoner,  who  assures  Julie  that  life  is  short  but 
love  is  immortal.  As  he  is  being  led  off,  the  Cardinal  arrives,  supported  by  Joseph, 
and  apparently  sinking  fast.  He  appeals  to  Baradas  in  his  present  high  position, 
to  grant  him  one  favor — DeMauprat's  life.  But  the  stakes  are  too  heavy — ''My 
head,"  replies  the  Minister,  "  I  cannot  lose  one  trick." 

Seizing  the  opportunity  of  the  King's  return,  the  Cardinal,  to  the  amazement  of 
all  assembled,  announces  his  resignation,  and  calls  upon  his  under  secretaries  to 
read  1  heir  reports.  They  show  such  a  state  of  trouble,  revolt,  and  ruin  in  all  (he 
surrounding  countries,  whilst  France  alone-  is  firm,  made,  so,  by  Richelieu's  skillful 
hand,  that  the  King  shudders  to  think  there  is  no  master  mind  like  his  to  succeed 
him. 

At  this  moment,  Francois  enters,  and  as  he  hands  the  dispatch  to  Richelieu  ob- 
serves lowly,  "  I  have  not  failed."  In  an  instant  it  is  placed  in  the  King's  hands. 
"With  horror  and  dismay  the  conspirators  hear  it  read,  and  their  names  repeated. 
The  hour  of  triumph  is  too  much  for  the  Cardinal,  who  sinks  exhausted,  as  a  1 
think,  dying.  The  King  passionately  implores  him  to  live,  if  not  for  his  sake,  for  his 
country — for  France  !  Like  a  magician's  charm  does  the  word  fall  upon  his  ears, 
and  with  a  superhuman  power,  all  his  latent  energies  revive.  Orders  are  sent  forth 
for  the  arrest  of  the  Due  de  Bouillon  at  the  head  of  his  army  —one  by  one,  the  con- 
spirators are  dispatched  to  their  doom— the  death  writ  of  De  Mauprat  thrown  to  the 
winds — happiness  restored— and  the  Cardinal  Minister,  greater  than  ever,  exclaims  ; 

"  My  own  dear  France— I  have  thee  yet — I  have  saved  thee  ! 
I  clasp  thee  still — it  was  thy  voice  that  call'd  me 
Back  from  the  tomb  !     What  mistress  like  our  country  ?" 


REMARKS. 


The  few  observations  addressed  to  the  reader  of  the  Lady  of  Lyons  (the  first  of  the 
present  new  series  of  Bulwer's  plays)  are  sufficient  notes  of  the  merits  and  high  in- 
tellectual attainments  and  ability  of  the  distinguished  author  of  the  two  plays. 

So  enthusiastically  was  the  Lady  of  Lyons  received,  so  decided  was  its  success  in 
London  and  the  Provinces,  as  well  as  in  the  United  States,  that  he  was  encouraged 
speedily  to  attempt  another  play.  Choosing  tor  his  theme  a  broader  and  a  grander 
basis,  he  selected  the  History  of  France  at  a  great  and  momentous  period,  to  fur- 
nish the  requisite  materials. 

Within  twelve  months  after  the  successful  launch  of  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  viz:  in 
March,  1839,  the  literary  and  dramatic  world  were  gratified  by  the  production  of  one 
of  the  finest  written  and  most  skillfully  constructed  historical  plays  at  any  time 
offered  to  the  public. 

It  was  produced  at  the  same  establishment — the  Theatre  Royal,  Covent  Garden, 
London — and  by  a  comparison  of  the  cast  of  characters,  it  will  be  seen  that  many 
of  the  leading  actors  in  that  play  appeared  in  this — in  parts,  equally,  if  not  more, 
effective ;  at  any  rate  of  a  different  and  more  powerful  nature,  calling  forth  all  their 
energy  and  ability,  and  judging  from  the  criticisms  of  the  time,  they  were  not  found 
wanting. 

In  the  United  States,  where  it  made  its  appearance  very  soon  afterwards,  only  one. 


RICHELIEU. 


11 


of  the  actors  in  the  Lady  of  Lyons  appeared  in  Richelieu— but  he  was  a  host  in 
himself — Edwin  Forrest. 

The  author's  prefaoe  to  this  play  is  more  lengthy  than  to  the  former  one,  and  is 
so  beautifully  and  ?o  clearly  worded,  that  it  would  be  the  height  of  presump; 
attempt  to  interfere  with  it.  But  a  succinct  account  of  the  events  previous  to  the 
commencement  of  the  play,  and  the  exact  position  of  the  chief  persons,  may  prove 
interesting  and  afford  the  reader  additional  means  for  obtaining  a  clearer  and  more 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  story,  and  a  keener  and  higher  appreciation  of  the 
author's  powers  of  dealing  with  his  subject. 

On  the  13th  of  May,  1610,  whilst  Henry  IV.,  King  of  France,  was  proceeding  in 
his  carriage  through  the  Rue  de  la  Ferroniere,  a  man  named  Francois   Ravaillac, 
mounted   upon  the  wheel  and  aimed  a  deadly  blow  at  his  side,  a  second  fol  I 
which  reached  his  heart,  and  he  immediately  expired. 

Louis  XIII.,  who  succeeded,  was  then  nine  years  of  age,  and  measures  were 
instantly  taken  for  placing  the  Regency  in  the  hands  of  his  mother,  Mary  De  Medi- 
cis.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  matters  assumed  a  very  different  aspect  to 
that  which  had  previously  existed.. 

The  government  of  a  woman,  and  that  woman  a  foreigner,  could  not  maintain  the 
lofty  tone  and  vigor  which  had  marked  the  reign  of  Henry.  The  Queen  was  a  per- 
son of  weak  character  and  narrow  understanding,  ruled  entirely  by  favorites  and 
confidants.  The  usual  consequences  ensured — rival  factions  and  internal  disorder. 
In  1614,  Louis  attained  his  majority,  when  the  body  of  Deputies  and  others  known 
as  the  States  General  were  assembled,  and  as  one  of  the  representatives  of  the 
clergy,  then  appeared  Armand  Duplessis  de  Richelieu,  at  that  time  Bishop  of 
Lucon.  To  strengthen  the  government,  it  was  determined  to  marry  the  young 
king  to  the  Infanta  Anne  of  Austria,  a  measure  violently  opposed  by  the  Prince  of 
Conde,  then  in  great  power,  but  warmly  supported  by  the  Queen  Mother  and 
Richelieu,  who  was  silently,  but  surely,  working  his  way  to  power,  and  by  his 
advice,  the  Court  took  the  bold  step  of  arresting  the  Prince  of  Conde,  and  others 
of  the  nobility  saved  themselves  by  flight ;  riots  took  place  in  the  City,  but  were 
soon  suppressed,  and  Richelieu,  for  his  good  services,  was  made  Secretary  of  State. 
He  was  a  firm  ally  of  the  Queen  Mother,  supporting  her  strongly  against  all  oppos- 
ing factions.  The  military  successes  were  great,  but  notwithstanding  this,  the  Gov- 
ernment fell  into  a  lamentable  state  of  weakness. 

The  King's  chief  advisers  all  stood  in  awe  of  Richelieu,  whose  commanding  genius 
was  apparent ;  but  in  spite  of  all  opposition,  the  Queen  Mother  compelled  Louis,  in 
1622,  to  make  Richelieu  a  cardinal.  Affairs  grew  worse  and  more  unsteady,  the 
King  disliked  the  Cardinal,  but  under  the  importunities  of  the  Queen  Mother,  he 
summoned  him  to  his  Council.  He  had  not  been  in  office  six  months  before  Lis 
supremacy  was  universally  recognized  ;  the  irresistible  energy  of  his  character,  and 
extraordinary  capacity  for  government,  won  their  way.  Attaining  this  high  posi- 
tion, he  started  principles  which  he  pursued  vigorously  through  life,  the  annihila- 
tion of  the  Huguenots  as  a  political  party,  the  complete  subjugation  of  the  nobility 
to  the  royal  authority,  and  the  restoration  of  France  to  her  predominant  influence 
throughout  Europe. 

The  first  plot  against  him  was  in  1626,  by  Gaston,  the  King's  only  brother,  and 
then  Duke  of  Anjou  ;  but  being  detected,  and  being  a  mixture  of  weakness,  coward- 
ice and  baseness,  he  betrayed  his  accomplices,  for  which  the  King  was  weak  enough 
to  make  him  Duke  of  Orleans  and  give  him  large  revenues.  Richelieu  had  his 
revenge  by  the  execution  or  banishment  of  the  other  conspirators,  and  the  triumph 
over  this  plot  established  his  supremacy.  From  step  to  step  he  rose  to  greater  tame, 
and  notwithstanding  his  exalted  rank  and  ecclesiastical  character,  he  personally 
ui  dertook  the  military  operations  at  the  siege  of  La  Rochelle,  and  proved  he  pos- 
sessed all  the  qualities  of  a  great  commander.  In  1629,  he  was  invested  with  the 
Most  extraordinary  powers  under  the  title  of  "  Lieutenant  General,  representing 
the  King's  person."  He  assumed  the  supreme  command  of  the  army,  and  during 
1630  fortress  after  fortress,  in  Italy  and  Savoy,  fell  before  the  French  forces. 


12 


WALPOLE. 


Suffering — The  Portrait — Joyful  Recognition  of  Lucy  as  tin  Minister's 
Niece — The  Test  of  Affection  and  the  Trial  of  Honor — Blount's  Offer  of 
Love  Refused — Arrival  of  Bellair — Explanations  and  Promises — The 
Reward  of  Virtue  and  Faith — Union  of  Bellair  and  Lucy — Opposition 
Votes  Secured — The  Struggle  for  Power  Won — And  Triumphant  Success 

of 

WALPOLE. 


EXPLANATION  OF  THE  STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 
The  Actor  is  supposed  to  face  the  Audience. 


E.3t     ' 


/ 


SCENE. 


e.  2  a. 

/ 


\ 


L.  3  E. 


\ 


\ 


L.2E. 


L.  IE. 


C.  t.  O.  L. 

AUDIENCE. 


■L,  Left. 

l.  G.  Left  Centre. 

l.  1  e.  Left  First  Entrance. 

i..  2  e.  Left  Second  Entrance. 

l.  3  e.  Left  Third  Entrance. 

l.  v.  e.  Left  Upper  Entrance 

(wherever  this  Scene  may  be.) 

v.  l.  c.  Door  Left  Centre. 


c. 

Centre. 

n. 

Eight. 

R.  1  E. 

Eight  First  Entrance. 

R.  2  E. 

Eight  Second  Entrance 

R.  3  E. 

Eight  Third  Entrance. 

R.  U.  E. 

Eight  Upper  Entrance. 

v.  i..  c- 

Door  Eight  Centre. 

WALPOLE 


ACT  I. 


SCENE—Tom's  Cofee-housc,  in  4th  grooves- At  bach,  Gentlemen  seated 
in  the  (liferent  "  boxes." 

Enter  Walpole,  l.  v.,  and  Veaset,  r.  2  E-,  down  steps,  both  to  c.  front. 


Veasey 
Walpole. 

Veaset. 
Walpole. 


Veaset. 
"Walpole. 

Veaset. 
Walpole. 
Veaset. 
Walpole. 


Veaset. 
Walpole. 

Veaset. 
Walpole 


Veaset. 
Walpole 


Ha! 


ood  day,  my  dear  patron. 

Good  day,  my  dear  friend  ; 

You  can  spare  me  five  minutes  ? 

Five  thousand. 

Attend ; 

I  am  just  from  the  kins,  and  I  failed  not  to  press  him 
To  secure  to  his  service  John  Veasey. 

God  bless  him ! 
George's    reign,  just    begun,  your   tried  worth  will    distin- 
guish. 
Oh,  a  true  English  king  ! 

Tho'  lie  cannot  speak  English. 
You  must  find  that  defect  a  misfortune,  I  fear  1 
The  reverse;   (smiles)  for  no  rivals  can  set  at  his  ear. 
It  is  something  to  be  the  one  public  man  pat  in 
The  new  language  that  now  governs  England,  dog  La. in. 

II  mpy  thing  for  these  kingdoms  that  yon  have  that  gift, 
Or  alas  >  on  what  shoals  all  our  counsels  would  dntt. 
(jauntily).    Yes,   the    change    from   Queen    Anne    to    King 

George,  we  must  own, 
Renders  me  and  the  Whigs  the  so'e  props  of  the  throne. 
For  the  Tories  their  Jacobite  leanings  disgrace, 
And  a  Whi<*  is  the  only  sa:e  man  for  a  place. 
And  the  Walpoles  of  Houghton,  in  aU  their  relations, 
Have  been  Whigs  to  the  backbone  for  thiee  Generations. 
Av   my  father  and  mother  contrived  to  produce 
Their  eighteen  sucking  Whigs  for  the  family  use, 
Of  which  number  one  only,  without  due  reflection. 
Braved  the  wrath  of  her  house  by  a  Tory  connection. 
But,  by  Jove,  if  her  Jacobite  husband  be  living, 
I  will  make  him  a  Whig. 

How? 

By  something  worth  giving  ; 
'   For  I  loved  her  in  boyhood,  that  pale  pretty  sister  ; 


14 


WALFCLE. 


And  in  counting  the  Walpoles  still  left,  I  have  miss'd  her. 

(pauses  in  emotion,  but  quickly  recovers  himself) 
What  was  it  I  said  ?     Oh — the  State  and  the  Guelph, 
For  their  safety,  must  hencetorth  depend  on  myself. 
The  revolt,  scarcely  quenched,  has  live  spaiks  in  its  ashes  ; 
Nay,  fresh  seeds  for  combustion  were  sown  by  its  flashes. 
Each  example  we  make  dangerous  pity  bequeathes ; 
For  no  Briton  likes  blood  in  the  air  that  he  breathes. 
Veaset.     Yes ;  at  least  there's  one  rebel  whose  doom  to  the  block 

Tho'  deserved,  gives  this  soft-hearted  people  a  shock. 
Walpole.  Lord    Nithsdale,  you    mean;     handsome,  young,  and   jusli 
wedded — 
A  poor  body — 'twould  do  us  much  harm  if  beheaded. 
Veaset.     Yet,  they  say,  you  rejected  all  prayers  for  his  life. 
Walpole.  It  is  true  ;   bin  in  private  I've  talked  to  his  wife  ; 

She  had  orders  to  see  him  last  night  in  the  Tower, 

And 

Veaset.  Well?— 

Walpole  {looking  at  hit  watch).  Wait  for  the  news — 'tis  not  yet  quite 
the  hour. 
Ah!  poor  England,  I  fear,  at  the  General  Election, 
Will  vote  strong  in  a  mad  anti-WhiguHi  direction. 
From  a  Jacobite  Parliament  we  must  defend  her, 
Or  the  King  will  be  Stuart,  and  Guelph  the  Pretender. 
And  I  know  but  one  measure  to  rescue  our  land 
From  the  worst  of  all  ills— Civil  War. 
(solemnly).  True  ;  we  stand 

At  that  dread  turning-point  in  the  life  of  a  State 
When   its  free    choice    would  favor    what    freedom    should 
hate ; 

When  the  popular  cause,  could  we  poll  )  opulation 

Would  be  found  the  least  popular  thing  in  the  nation. 

Scarce  a  fourth  of  this  people  ate  sound   in   their  reason 

But  we  can't  hang  the  other  three-fourths  for  high  tteason  ! 
Tell  me,  what  is  the  measure  your  wisdom  proposes 1 
In  its  third  year,  by  law,  this  Whig  Parliament  closes. 
But  the  law  !     What's  the  law  in  a  moment  so  critical  1 
Church  and  Stale  must  be  saved  from  a  House  Jacobiiical. 
Let  this  Parliament  then,  under  favor  of  Heaven, 
Lengthen  out  its  existence  from  three  yeais  to  seven. 
Brilliant  thought!  could  the  State  keep  is  present  directors 
Undisturbed  for  a  time  by  those  rowdy  e  ectors, 
While  this  new  German  tree,  just  transplanted,  takes  root, 
Dropping  down  on  the  lap  of  each  friend  golden  fiuit, 
Britain  then  would  be  saved  from  all  chance  of  reaction 
To  the  craft  and  corrup'ion  of  Jacobite  faction. 
But  ah  !  think  you  the  Commons  would  swallow  the  question  ? 
That  depends  on  what  pills  may  assist  their  digestion. 
I  could  make — see  this  list — our  majority  sure, 
If  by  buying  two  men  I  could  sixty  secure; 
For  as  each  of  these  two  is  the  chief  of  a  section 
That  will  vote  black  or  white  at  its  leader's  direction, 
Let  the  pipe  of  the  shepherd  but  lure  the  bell-wether, 
And  he  folds  the  whole  flock,  wool  and  cry.  altogether. 
Well,  the  first  of  these  two  worthy  members  you  guess. 
Vrasey.     Sure,  you  cannot  mean  Blount,  virtuous  Selden  Blount  1 
Walpole.  Yes. 


Veaset 


Walpole, 

Veaset. 

Walpole. 

Veasey. 

Walpole. 


Veaset. 


Walpole. 


ACT    I. 


15 


Walpole. 


What !  your  sternest  opponent,  lialf  Can,  lialf  Brutus, 

He,  whose  vote  incorruptible 

Just  now  would  suit  us  : 


Veasey. 
Walpole. 


Veasey. 
Walpole 


For  a  patriot  so  staunc'.i  could  with  dauntless  effrontery — 
Sell  himself? 

Why,  of  course,  for  the  good  of  his  country. 
True,  his  price  will  be  high — lie  is  worth  forty  votes, 
And  his  salary  must  pay  for  the  change  in  their  coats. 
Prithee,  has  not  his  zeal  for  his  tatherland — rather 
Overbut  thened   the  lands  he  received  f  oin  his  father  1 
Well,  'tis  whispered  in  clubs  that  his  debts  somewhat  tease  I.im. 
Imu^t  sea  him  in  private,  and  study  to  ease  him. 
Will  you  kindly  arrange  that  he  cdi  upon  me 
At  my  home,  not  my  office,  to-day— just  at  three! 

Not  a  word  that  can  hint  of  ihe  object  in  view 

Sty  some  (slight pause)  bill  in  the  House   that  concerns  him 

and  you  ; 
And  on  which,  as  distinct  from  all  party  disputes, 
Members  meet  without  tearing  each  other  like  brutes. 
Lucky  thought  ! — Blount  and  I  both  agree  in  Committee 

On  a  bill  for  amending  the  dues  of  the  City 

And  the  Government  wants  to  enlighten  its  soul 
On  the  price  which  the  pub]  c  should  pay  lor  its  coal. 
We  shall  have  him,  tnis  Puritan  chief  of  my  foes. 
Now  the  next  one  to  catch  is  tie  clnef  of  the  Beaux  ; 
All  our  young  members  mimic  h's  nod  or  his  lau^h  ; 
And  if  Blount  be  worth  forty  votes,  he  is  worth  half. 
Eh  !    Bellair.  whose  defence  of  the  Jacobite  peers 

Walpole.  Thrilled  the  Hou-e  ;   Mr.  Speaker  him-elf  was  in  tears. 
Faith,  I  thought  he:d  have  beat  us.   (taking  snuff.) 

Veasey.  Th.it  fierce  peroration 

Walpole.  Which    compared   me  to    Nero — supeib  (brushing   the   sniff 
from  his  luce  lappet)  declamation  ! 
Yes  ;  a  very  fine  speaker. 

Of  that  there's  no  doubt 
For  he  speaks  about  things  he  knows  nothing  about. 

But  1  still  to  our  party  intend  to  unite  him 

Secret  Service  Department-  Bellair — a  small  item. 

Nay,  you  j  ist— for  this  gay  maiden  knlsht  in  debate, 

To  a  promise  so  brilliant  adds  fortune  so  great 

Walpole    That  he  is  not  a  man  to  be  bought  by  hard  cash  ; 

But  he's  vain  and  conceited,  light-hearted  and  rash. 

Every  favorite  of  fortune  hopes  still  to  be  greater, 

ADd  a  beau  mu-t  want  something  to  turn  a  debater. 

Hem  !    I  know  a  Duke's  daughter,  youus.  sprightly  and  fair  ; 

She  will  wed  as  I  wish  her ;  hint  that  to  Bellair ; 

Ay,  and  if  he  will  put  himself  under  my  steerage, 

Say  that  with  the  Duke's  daughter  I  throw  in  the  peerage. 

Veasey.  {thoughtfully).    Those   are  baits  that  a  vain  man  of  wit  may 
seduc. 

Walpole.  Or,  if  not,  his  political  creed  must  be  loose; 

To  some  Jacob  te  plot  he  will  not  be  a  stranger, 
And  to  win  h.m  securely 

Veasey.  We'll  get  him  in  danger 

Hist ! 


Veasey. 
Walpole. 


Veasey. 


Veasey. 
Walpole 


Veasey. 


Enter  Bellair,  humming  a  tune,  l.  d. 


10 


WALPOLE. 


Walpole.  Good-morning,  Sir  Sidney  ;  your  speech  did  you  credit ; 
And  whatever  your  party,  in  tune  you  will  head  it. 
Your  attack  on  myself  was  exceedingly  sinking, 
Though  the  subject  you  cho  >se  was  not  quite  to  my  likii.g. 
Tut  !  I  never  bear  malice,      l'ou  hunt  ? 

Bellair.  Yes,  of  la  e 

Walpole.  And  you  ride  as  you  speak  1 

Belliar.  Well,  in  both  a  light  weight. 

Walpole.  But  light  weights  have  the  odds  in  their  favor,  I  fear. 

Come  and  hunt  with  my  barriers  at  Houghton  this  year; 
I  can  show  you  some  sport. 

Bellaik.  Sir,  there's  no  doubt  of  that. 

Walpole.   We  will  turn  out  a  fox. 

Bellair.    {aside).  As  a  bait  for  a  rat ! 

Walpole.  I  expect  you  next  autumn  !  Agreed  then  ;  good-day. 

[They  salute ;  exit  Walpole,  l.  d. 

Bellair.    Well,  I  don't  know  a  pleasanter  man  in  his  way  ; 

'Tis  no  wonder  his  friends  are  so  fond  of  their  chief. 

Veasey.      That  you  are  not  among  them  is  matter  for  grief. 
Ah,  a  man  of  such  stake  in  the  land  as  yourself, 
Could  command  any  post  in  the  court  of  the  Guelph. 

Bellair.    No,  no  ;  I'm  appalled. 

Veasey.  By  the  king  ?    Cnn  you  doubt  him  ? 

Bellair.     I'm  appalled  by  those  Gorgons,  the  ladies  about  him. 

Veasey.     Good!  ha,  ha!  yes,  in  beauty  his  tag  e  mny  be  wrong, 
But  he  has  what  we  want,  sir, a  gove  nment  strong. 

Bellair.    Meaning  petticoat  government  ?     Mii.e  loo  is  such, 
But  my  ruler-*  don'i  frighten  their  subj  cis  so  much. 

Veasey.      Nay,  your  rulers  1    Why  plural]     Legitimale  sway 
Can  admit  but  one  ruler  to  love 

Bellair.  And  obey. 

What  a  wife  !     Constitutional  monarchy  F    Well, 
If  I  choose  my  own  sovereign  I  might  not  rebel. 

Veasey.      STou  may  choose  at  your  will !    With  your  parts,  wealth,  con- 
dition, 
You  in  marriage  could  link  all  ihe  ends  of  ambition 
There  is  a  young  beauty — the  highest  in  birth 
And  her  father,  the  Duke 

Bellair.  Oh,  a  Duke! 

Veasey.  Knows  your  worth 

L'strn  ;  Walpole,  desiring  to  strengthen  the  Lords 
With  the  very  best  men  whom  the  country  affords, 
His  implied  to  his  Grace,  that  his  choice  should  he  clear. 

{carelessly)  If  you  wed  the  Dukes's  daughter,  of  course  you're  a  pee:. 

Bellair.    With  the  Lords  and  the  lady  would  Walpole  ally  me? 

Veasey.     Yes;  and  if  I  were  you 

Bellair                                              He  would  certainly  buy  me  ; 
But  I,— being  a  man (draws  himself  up  haughtily) 

Veasey.  No  offence.     Why  that  frown  ] 

Bellair  {relapsing  into  his  habitual  ease).  Nay,  forgive  me.    Tho'  man, 
I'm  a  man  about  town  ; 
And  so  graceful  a  compliment  could  not  offend 
Any  man  about  town,  from  a  Minis' er's  friend. 
Still,  if  not  from  the  frailty  of  mortals  exempt, 
Can  a  mortal  be  templed  where  sins  do  not  tempt  ? 
Of  my  rank  and  my  fortune  I  am  so  conce  ted, 
That  I  don't,  with  a  wife,  want  those  blessings  repealed. 


And  tho'  flattered  to  learn  I  should  strengthen  the  Peers — 
Give    me     still    our   rough     House    with     its    laughter    ami 

cheers. 
Let  the  Lords  have  their  chamber — I  grudge  not  its  poweis; 
But  for  badgering  a  Minister  nothing  like  ours  ! 
Whisper    that    to   the  Minister ; — sir,  your   obedient,    {turns 
away,  u-.to  Gentlemen  at  table.) 
Veaset   {aside).   Humph!   I  see  we  must   hazard  the  ruder  expedient. 
If  some  Jacobite  pit  for  his  feet  we  can  d;g, 
He  shall  hang  as   a  Tory,  or  vote  as  a  Whig.  (Veaset  re- 
tires up  stage  ) 
Bellair    {seating  himself,    r.   c.  front).   Oh,    how  little  these  formalist 
middle-aged  schemers 
Know  of  us  the  bold  youngsters,  half  sages,  half  dreamers  ! 
Sages  half!     Yes,  i ecause  of  the  time  rushing  on, 
Part  and  parcel  are  we  ;  they  belong  to  time  gone. 
Dreamers  half  1     Yes,  because  in  a  woman's  fair  face 
We  imagine  the  heaven  thev  find  in  a  place. 
At  this  moment  I,  courted  by  Whig  and  by  Tory, 
For  the  spangles  and  tinsel  which  clothe  me  with  glory, 
Am  a  monster  so  callous,  I  should  not  feel  sorrow 
If  an  earthquake  engulfed  Whig  and  Tory  to-morrow 
"  What  a  heartless  assertion  !  "  the  aged  would  say  ; 
True,  the  young  have  no  heart,  for  they  give  it  away. 
Ah,  Hove  !  and  here — joy  !   comes  the  man  who  may  aid  me. 

Enter  Blount,  l.  d. 


Blount  {to  Coffee-house  loungers,  who  gather   round  him  as  he  comes  down 
the  stage). 

Yes,  sir,  just  from  Guildhall,  where  the  City  has  paid  me 

The  great  honor  1  never  can  merit  enough, 

Of  this  box,   dedicated   to   Virtue {Coffee-house   loungers 

gather  around) 
Veaset.  And  snuff. 

Blount.     Yes,  sir,  Higgins  the  Patriot,  who  deals  in  rappee, 

Stored  that  box  with  pulvillio,  superfluous  to  me ; 

For  a  public  man  gives  his  whole  life  to  the  natioD, 

And  his  nose  has  no  time  for  a  vain  titillation. 
Veaset.     On  the  dues  upon  coal — apropos  of  the  City — 

We  agreed 

Blount.  And  were  beat;  Walpole  bribed  the  Committee. 

Veaset.     You  mistake  ;  he  leans  tow'rds  us,  and  begs  you  to  call 

At  his  house — three  o'clock. 
Blouxt      {declaiming  as  if  in  Parliament).  But  I  say,  once  for  all, 

That  the  dues 

Veaset.  Put  the  case  as  you  only  can  do, 

And  we  carry  the  question. 
Blount.  I'll  call,  sir,  at  two. 

Veaset.  He  said  three. 

Blount.     I  say  two,  sir  ;  my  honor's  at  stake, 

To  amend  every  motion  that  Ministers  make.  (Veaset  retires 
into  the  background.) 
Blount,  {advancing    to  Bellair).     Young  debater,   your  hand.      One 
might  tear  into  shreds 

All  your  plea  for  not  cutting  off  Jacobite  heads  ; 

But  that  burst  against  Walpole  redeemed  your  whole  speech. 


18  'WAl.rOLE. 

Be  but  lionest,  and  high  is  the  f  ime  you  will  reach. 
Bellair.  (r.  a).  Blount,  your  praise  would  delight,  but  your   caution 

offends. 
Blount    (c.i.   'Tis  my  way — I'm  plain  spoken  to  foes  and  to  friends. 
What  are  talents  but  snares  to  mislead  and  pervert  you, 
Unless  they  converge  in  one  end — Public  Virtue! 
Pine  debaters  abound  ;  we  applaud  and  despise  them; 
For  when  the  House  die  rs  them  the  Minister  buys  them. 
Come,  be  honest,  I  say,  sir — away  with  all  doubt  ; 
Public  Virtue  commands  !      Vote  the  Minister  out  ! 
Bellair.     Public  virtue  when  construed  means  private  ambition. 

Blount.      This  to  me — to  a  Patriot 

Bellair  In  fierce  opposition  ; 

But  you  ask  for  my  vote. 
Blount.  E  iglund  wants  every  man. 

Bellair     Well,  tho'  Walpole  can't  buy  me,  I  think  that  you  can. 
Blount,  I  saw  you  last  evening  cloaked  up  to  your  chin, 
But  I  had  not  a  guess  who  lay, perdu,  within 
All  those  bales  of  broadcloth — when  a  gust,  of  wind  rose, 
And  uplifting  your  beaver  it  let  out  your  nose. 
Blount,  (somewh  it  confusedly).  Yes,  I  always  am  cloaked — half  disg::'sed 
when  I  so 
Certain  rounds — reil  charity  hides  ilself  so  ; 
For  one  good  deed  concealed  is  worth  fitly  paraded. 
Bellair.    Finely  siid      Qu'tting,  doubtless,  the  poor  you  had  aided, 
You  sh  >t  by  me  before  I  had  time  to  accost  you, 
Down  a  court  which  contains  but  one  house  ; — there  I  lest 
you. 
Blount.      One  house  ! 

Bellair.  Where  a  widow  named  Vizard 

Blount,  (aside).  I  tremble. 

Yes 

Bellair.  Resides  with  an  angel 

Blount,   (aside).  'Twere  best  to  dissemble. 

With  an  angel !  bah  !  say  with  a  girl — what's  her  name? 
Bellair.    On  this  earth  Lucy  Wilmot. 
Blount.  Eh  !— Wilmot  ? 

Bellair.  The  s-ame. 

Blount,  (after  a  short  pause).  And  how  knew  you  those  ladies  1 
Bellair.  Will  you  be  my  friend  1 

Blount.       1  ?  of  course.     Tell  me  all  from  beginning'to  end. 
Bellair.     On,  my  story  is  short.     Just  a  fortnight  ago, 

dining  home  tow'rds  the  night  from  my  cfub 

Blount.  Drunk  ? 

Bellair.  So,  so. 

"  Help  me,  help  !"  cries  a  voice — 'lis  a  woman's — I  run — 
Which  may  prove  I'd  drunk  less  than  1  often  have  done. 
And  I  find — but,  de  ir  Blount,  you  have  heard  the  renown 
Of  a  set  calle  1  the  Mohawks  ? 
Blount.  The  scourge  of  the  town. 

A  lewd  band  of  night  savages,  scouring  the  street, 
Sword  in  hand, — and  the  terror  of  all  whom  they  meet 
Not  as  had  as  themselves  ;—you  were  safe,  sir;  proceed. 

Bellair.     in  the  m'dst  of  the  Mohawks  I  saw  her  and  freed 

Blount.      You  saw  h'r — Lucy  Wilmot— at  night,  and  alone  1 
Bellair.    No,  she  h  id  a  protector — the  face  of  that  crone. 
Blount.      Mistress  Vizard  1 


ACT    I. 


19 


Bellair, 


Blount. 
Bellair, 

Blount. 
Bellaia. 


Blount. 
Bellair. 

Blount. 
Bellair. 


Blount. 

Bellair. 

Blount. 

Bellair. 


The  same,  yet,  tho'  strange  it  appear, 
When  the  rogues  saw  her  face  they  did  not  fly  in  fear. 
Brief — 1  came,  siwand  conquered — but  own,  on  the  whole, 
That  my  conquest  was  helped  by  the  City  Patrol. 

I  escorted  them  home — at  their  threshold  we  part  

And  I  mourn  since  that  night  for  the  loss  of  my  heart. 
Did  you  call  the  next  day  to  demand  back  that  treasure  ? 
Yes. 
And  saw  the  young  lady  1 

I  had  rot  that  pleasure; 
I  saw  the  old  widow,  who  told  me  politely 
That  her  house  was  too  quiet  for  visits  so  sprightly  ; 
That  young  females  brought,  up  in  the  school  of  propriety 
Must  reg  ird  ad  young  males  as  the  pests  of  society. 
I  will  spare  you  her  lectures,  she  showed  me  the  door, 
And  closed  it. 

You've  seen  Lucy  Wilmot  no  mo:e  1 
Pardon,  yes — very  often  ;   that  is  once  a  day. 

Every  hou  e  has  its  windows 

Ah  !   what  did  you  say  ? 
Well,  by  words  very  little,  but  much  by  the  eyes. 
Now  instruct  me  in  turn, — from  what  part  of  the  skies 
Did  my  angel  descend  ?     What  her  parents  and  race  ? 
She  is  well-born,  no  doubt — one  sees  that  in  her  face. 
What  to  her  is  Dame  Vizard — that  awful  duenna, 
With  the  look  of  a  griffiness  fed  upon  senna  1 
Tell  me  all.     Ho  there  ! — drawer,  a  bottle  of  clary  ! 

[Exit,  Waiter,  r.  u.  e- 
Leave  in  peace  the  poor  girl  whom  vou  never  could  marry. 
Why? 

Her  station's  too  mean.     In  a  "small  country  town 
Her  poor  mother  taught  music. 

Her  father  1 


Enter  Waiter,  r.  u.  e.,  and  places  wine  and  glasses  on  the  table.  R.  c. 


Blount. 


Bellair. 
Blount. 


Bellair. 
Blount. 


Bellair. 
Blount. 

Bellair. 


Unknown. 
From  the  mother's  deathbed,  from  the  evil  and  danger 
That  might  threaten  her  youth,  she  was  brought  by  a  stran- 
ger. 

To  the  house  of  the  lady  who 

Showed  me  the  door  ? 
Till  instructed  to  live  like  her  mother  before, 
As  a  teacher  of  music.     My  noble  young  triend, 
To  a  match  so  unmeet  you  could  never  descend. 
You  assure  me,  I  trust  that  all  thought  is  dismist 
Of  a  love  so  misplaced. 

No — (  filling  Blount's  glass) — her  health  ! 

You  persist? 
Dare  yon,  sir,  to  a  man  of  my  teuets  austere, 
Even  to  hint  your  design    if  your  suit  persevere  ? 
What! — you  still  would  besiege  her? 

Of  course,  if  I  love. 
I  am  virtue's  defender,  sir — there  is  my  glove,  {flings  down 

his  glove,  and  rises  in  angry  excitement.) 
Noble  heart !  T  esteem  you  still  more  for  this  heat, 
In  the  lis*,  of  mv  sins  there's  n  »  ro»m  fo"  deceit  ; 


20  WALPOLE. 

And  to  plot  against  innocence  helpless  and  weak — 
I'd  as  soon  pick  a  pocket ! 

Blount.  What  mean  you  then  ?     Speatc. 

Bellair.    Blount,  I  mean  you  to  grant  me  the  favor  1  ask. 

Blount.      What  is  that  ? 

Bellair.  To  yourself  an  agreeable  task. 

Since  you  know  this  Dame  Vizard,  you  call  there  to-day, 
And  to  her  aud  to  Lucy  say  all  L  would  say. 
You  attest  what  1  am — fortune,  quality,  birth, 
Adding  all  that  your  friendship  allows  me  of  worth. 
Blount,  I  have  not  a  father;   I  claim  you  as  one;  ■ 
You  will  plead  for  my  bride  as  you'd  speak  for  a  son. 
All  arranged — to  the  altar  we  go  in  your  carriage, 
And  I'll  vote  as  you  wish  the  month  after  my  marriage. 

Blount  {aside).  Caii  I  stifle  my  fury  f 

Enter  Newsman,  with  papers,  l.  d. 

Newsman.  Great  news!   (music,  animated,  piano.) 

Bellair.  Silence    ape  !  (coffte-house  loungers   rise  and  crowd 

round  the  Newsman,  l.  c. — Veasey  snatching  the  paper.) 
Omnes.  Read. 

Veasey      ^reading  through  the  music).   "  Lord  Nithsdale,  the   rebel,  has 

made  his  escape. 
His  wife,  by  permission  of  Walpole,  last  night, 

Saw  her  lord  in  the  tower "(great  sensation.) 

Bellair    (to  Blount).  You  will  make  it  all  right. 

Veasey    (continuing^.    "And  the  traitor  escaped  in    her  mantle   and 

dress." 
Bellair    (to  Blount).  Now  my.  fate's  in  your  hands — I  may  count  on 

you. 
Blount     (loudly).  Yes.  (music  forte.) 

quick  curtain. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — A  room  in  Wapole's  house. 

Discover  Walpole  and  Veasey  seated  at  table. 

Walpole.  And  so  Nithsdale's  escaped !     His  wife's  mantle  and  gown  ; 

Well — ha,  ha  !  let  us  hope  he's  now  out  of  this  town, 

And  in  safer  disguise  than  my  lady's  attire, 

Gliding  fast  down  the  Thames— which  he'll  not  set  on  fire. 
Veasey.     All  your  colleagues  are  furious. 
Walpole.  Ah,  yes  ;  if  they  catch  him, 

Not  a  hand  from  the  crown  of  the  martyr  could  snatch  him ! 

Of  a  martyr  so  pitied  the  troublesome  ghost 

Would  do  more  for  his  cause  than  the  arms  of  a  host. 

These  reports  from  our  agents,  in  boro'  and  shire, 

Show  how  slowly  the  sparks  of  red  embers  expire. 

Ah  !  what  thousands  will  hail  in  a  general  election 

The  wild  turbulent  signal  for 

Veasey.  Fresh  insurrection. 


ACT    IT. 


21 


Walople.  (gravely).  Worse  than  that ;  Civil  War !— at  all  risk,  at  all  cost, 
We  must  cany  this  bill,  or  the  nation  is  lost. 

Vkasey.     Will  not  Tory  and  Roundhead  against  it  unite  ? 

Walpole.  Every  man  has  his  price ;  I  must  bribe  left  and  right. 
So  you've  failed  with  Bellair — a  fresh  bait  we  must  try. 
As  for  Blount 


[Exit  Veasev  r. 


Walpole. 


Enter  Servant,  l. 
Servant.    Mr.  Blount. 
Walpole.  Pray  admit  him.     Good-bye. 

Servant  bows  in  Blount,  l. 

Blount.     Mr.  Walpole,  you  ask  my  advice  on  the  dues 

Which  the  City  imposes  on  coal. 
Walpole.  (motions  Blount  to  take  seat,  l,  c).  Sir,  excuse 

That  pretence  for  some  talk  on  more  weighty  a  theme, 

With  a  man  who  commands 

Blount,  (aside).  Forty  votes. 

Walpole.  My  esteem. 

You're  a  patriot,  and  therefore  I  courted  this  visit, 

Hark  !   your  country's  in  danger — great  danger,  sir. 
Blount  {drily).  .    ^  Isit1 

Walpole.  And  I  ask  you  to  save  it  from  certain  perdition. 

Blount.      Me  !— I  am 

Yes,  at  present  in  hot  opposition. 

But  what's  party  1     Mere  cricket — some  out  and  some  in ; 

I  have  been  out  myself.     At  that  time  I  was  thin. 

Atrabilious,  sir,— jaundiced  ;  now  rosy  and  stout, 

Nothing  pulls  down  a  statesman  like  long  fagging  out. 

And  to^come  to  the  point,  now  there's  nobody  by, 

Be  as  stout  and  as  rosy,  dear  Selden,  as  I. 

What !  when  bad  men  conspire,  shall  not  good  men  combine  1 

There's  a  place— lie  Pay  mastership— just  in  your  line  ; 

I  may  say  that  the  fees  a  e  ten  thousand  a  year, 

Besides  extras — not  mentioned,  (aside)  The  rogue  will  cost 
dear. 

What  has  that,  sir,  to  do  with  the  national  danger 

To  which 

You're  too  wise  to  be  wholly  a  stranger. 

Need  I  name  to  a  man  of  your  Protestant  true  heart 

AH  the  risks  we  yet  run  from  the  Pope  and  the  Stuart  ? 

And  the  indolent  public  is  so  unenlightened 

That 'tis  not  to  be  trusted,  and  scarce  to  be  frightened. 

When  the  term  of  this  Parliament  draws  to  its  close, 

Should  King  George  call  another,  'tis  filled  with  his  foes. 

You  pay  sofdiers  eno'  if  the  Jacobites  rise 

Walpole.  But  a  Jacobite  house  would  soon  stop  their  supplies. 

There's  a  General  on  whom  you  must  own  on  reflection, 

The  Pretender  relies. 

Whol 
The  General  Election. 

That  election  must  come  ;  you  have  no  other  choice. 

Would  you  juggle  the  People  and  stifle  its  voice  ? 
Walpole.  That  is  just,  what  young  men  fresh  from  college  would  say 

And  the  People's  a  very  aood  thing  in  its  way. 

But  what  is  the  People  ?— ihe  mere  population  ? 


Blount. 
Walpole 


Blount. 


Blount. 

Walpole. 

Blount. 


22  WALPOLE. 

No,  the  sound-thinking  part  of  tliis  practical  nation, 
Who  support  peace  and  order,  and  steadily  all  poll 
For  the  weal  of  the  land  ! 

Blount  (aside).  In  plain  words,  for  Bob  Walpole. 

AValpole.  Of  a  people  like  this  I've  no  doubt,  or  mistrusiiugs. 

But  I  have  of  the  tools  who  vote  wrong  at  the  hustings. 
Sir,  in  short,  I  am  always  frank-spoke:)  and  hearty, 
England  needs  all  the  patriots  that  go  with  your  party. 
We  must  make  the  three  years  of  this  Parliament  seven, 
And  s'ave  off  Civil  War.     You  agree  1 

Blount  (rises).  Gracious  heaven  ! 

Thus  to  silence  the  nation,  to  baffle  its  laws. 
And  expect  Selden  Blount  to  defend  such  a  cause  ! 
What  could  ever  atone  for  so  foul  a  disgrace? 

Walpole.  Everlasting  renown — (aside)  and  the  Paymaster's  place, 

Blount.      Sir,  your  servant — good  day;  I  am  uot  what  you  thought; 
I  am  honest (going  l.) 

Wtalpole.  Who  doubts  it  1  (rises.) 

Blount.  And  not  to  be  bought. 

Walpole  (stays  Blount  at  l.  c).  You  are  not  to  be   bought,  sir — as- 
tonishing man  ! 
Let  us  argue  that  point,  (to  c.)  If  creation  you  scan, 
You  will  find  that  the  children  ot  Adam  prevail 
O'er  the  beasts  of  the  field  but  by  baiter  and  sale. 
Talk  of  coals — if  it  were  not  for  buying  and  selling, 
Could  you  coax  from  Newcastle  a  coal  to  your  dwelling  ? 
You  would  be  to  your  own  tellow-men  good  for  naught, 
Were  it  true,  as  you  say,  that  you're  not  to  be  bought. 
If  you  find  men  worth  nothing — say,  don't  \  on  despise  them  ? 
And  what  proves  them  worth  nothing  ? — why  nobody  buys 

them. 
But  a  man  of  such  worth  as  yourself?  nonsense — come, 
Sir,  to  business  ;  I  want  you — I  buy  you  ;  the  sum  1 

Blount.      Is  corruption  so  brazen  1  are  nnnners  so  base  1 

Walpole    (aside).  That  means  he  don't  much  like  the  Paymaster's  place. 
(with  earnestness  and  dignity  ) 
Pardon,  Blount.  I  spoke  lightly  ;  but  do  not  mistake, — ■ 
On  mine  honor  the  peace  of  the  land  is  at  stake. 
Yes,  the  peace  and  the  freedom  !     Were  Hampden  himself 
Living  still,  won  d  he  side  with  the  Stuart  or  Guelph  ? 
Wh  n  the  Cassars  the  freedom  of  Rome  overthrew, 
All  its  forms  they  maintained — 'twas  its  spirit  they  slew! 
Shall  the  fre°dom  of  England  go  down  to  t;.e  grave  1 
...-,   No  !  the  forms  let  us  scorn,  so  the  spirit  we  save. 

Blount1."  England's  peac?  and  her  freedom  depend  on  your  bill? 

Walpole  (seriously).  Thou  know'st  it — and  therefore 

Blount.  My  aid  you  ask  still ! 

Walpole.  Nay,  no  longer  7 ask,  'tis  thy  country  petitions. 

Blount.     But  you  talked  ab  >ut  terms. 

Walpole  (pushing  pen  and  paper  to  him).  There,  then,  write  your  condi- 
ditions.  (Blount  writes,  folds  the  paper,  gives  ii  to  Wal- 
pole, boivs  and  exit.  L.  D.) 

Walpole.  (reading).  "  'Mongst  the  men  who  are  bought   to  save  Eng- 
land inscribe  me, 
And  my  bribe  is  the  head  of  the  man  who  would  brile  me." 
Eh  !  my  head  !     Thafs  atub  lion  much  too  high-reaching  ; 
I  suspect  that  t!;e  crocodile  hiuts  at  impeaching. 


ACT    II.  23 

And  he  calls  hi  nisei  f  honest !     What  highwayman's  worse  ? 
Thus  to  Uneaten  my  life  when  1  offer  my  purse. 
Km!   he  can't  br  in  debt,  as  the  common  talk  runs, 
For  the  man  who  scorns  money  has  never  known  duns. 
And  yet  have  him  I  must !     Shall  I  force  or  entice  ? 
Let  me  think — let  me  think  ;   eve-  y  mnn  has  his  {.rice. 

[Exit  Walpole,  slowly,  n. 

Scene  changes  to 

SCENE  II. — A  room  in  Mrs.  Vizabd's  house. 

Enter  Mrs.  Vizard,  r. 

Mrs.  Vizard.  :Tis  the  day  when  the  Jncohite  nobles  bespeak 

This  safe  room  for  a  chat  on  affairs  once  a-week.   {knock  with- 
out, L.) 
Ah,  they  come. 

Enter,  d.  f.,  two  Jacobite  Lords,  and  Nithsdale,  disguised  as  a  worn  rw. 

First  Lord.  Ma'am,  well  knowing  your  zeal  for  our  king, 

To  your  house  we  have  ventured  this  lady  to  bring. 

She  will  quit  you  at  sunset — nay.  haply,  much  sooner — 

For  a  voyage  to  France  in  some  t  usty  Divch  schooner. 

Hist! — her  husband  in  exile  she  sops  to  lejoin, 

And  our  homes  are  so  watched 

Mrs.  Viz.  That  she's  safer  in  mine. 

Come  with  me.  my  dear  lady,  I  have  in  my  care 

A  young  ward 

First  L.  Who  must  see  her  not!     Till  we  prepare 

Her  departure,  conceal  her  lmm  ail  pryinj*  eyes  ; 

She  is  timid,  and  looks  on  new  faces  as  spies. 

Sen  1  your  servant  on  business  that  keeps  her  away 

Until   nightfall; — her  trouble   permit  me  to  pay.  (giving  a 
purse. ) 

Mrs.  Viz.    Nay,  my  lord,  I  don't  need 

First  L.  Quick — your  servant  release. 

Mrs.  Viz.    I  will  send  her  to  Kent  with  a  note  to  my  niece. 

[Exit,  Mrs.Vizard,  r. 
First  L.   (Jo  Nithsdale).  Here  you  are  safe;  still  I  tremble  until   you 
are  freed  ; 

Keep  slurp  watch  at  the  window — the  signal's  agreed. 

When  a  pebble's  thrown  up  at  the  pane,  you  will  know 

'Tis  my  envoy  ; — a  carriage  will  wait  you  below. 
Nithsdale.  And,  if,  ere  you  can  send  him,  some  peril  befall  ? 
First  L-      Risk  your  flight  to  the  inn  near  the  steps  at  Blackwall. 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Vizard,  r. 

Mrs.  Viz.    She  is  gone. 

First  L.  Lead  the  lady  at  once  to  her  room. 

Mrs.  Viz.    (opening  l.  d.).  No  man  dares  enter  here. 

Nithsdale  (aside).  Where  she  sleeps,  I  presume. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Vizard  and  Nithsdale,  l.  d. 
Second  L.  Y<n\  still  firmly  believe   tho'  revolt  is  put  d   wn. 
That  Ki-'g  James  is  as  Bare  to  recover  his  crown. 


2  I  WALPOLE. 

First  Lord.  Yes;  but  wait  till  this  Parliament's  close  is  decreed, 
Aid  then  up  with  our  banner  from  Thames  to  the  Tweed. 

{knock  nt  buck,  r.  sirf-) 
Who  knocks  ?     Some  new  friend  ? 

Enter  Mrs.  Vizard,  l.,  crosses  to  r. 

Mr8.  V.  {looking  out  of  (he  window,  B  ).  Oh  !  quick — quick  -  do  not  stay  ! 

It  is  Blount. 
Both  Lords.  What,  the  Roundhead  ? 

J]rr.  V.  {opening  concealed  door,  l.  in  ¥.).   Here— here — »he  back   way. 

[  Exit  Mrs.  Vizard,  d.  f. 
First  L.  {as  they  get  to  l.  d.  in  f.).  Hush  !  and   wait  till  he's  safe  within 

doors. 
Second  L.  But  our  foes 

She  adini  s  ' 
First  L.  By  my  sanction — their  plain  to  disclose. 

/.'        '  Jacobite  Lords,  l.  d.  in  v.,  just  as  enter  Blount  and  Mrs.  Viz- 
ard, d.  F. 

Mrs.  Viz-  I  had  sent  out  my  servant;  this  is  not  your  hour. 

Blount.     Mistress  Vizard. 

Mrs    Viz.  Sweet  sir!   {oside)  He  looks  horridly  sour. 

Blount.     I  enjoined  you  when  trusliua;  my  ward  to  your  care 

Mrs.  Viz.  To  conceal  from  herself  the  true  name  that  you  bear. 

Blount.     And  she  still  has  no  guess 

Mrs.  Viz.  That  in  Jones,  christened  John, 

'Tis  the  great  Selclen  Blount  whom  she  gazes  upon. 

Blount.     And  my  second  injunction 

Mrs.  Viz.  Was  duly  to  teach  her 

To  respect  all  you  say,  as  if  said  by  a  preacher. 
Blount.     A  preacher  ! — not  so  ;  as  a  man  she  should  rather 

Confide  in,  look  up  to,  and  love  as 

Mrs.  Viz.  A  father. 

Blount.     Hold!  I  did  not  say  "  Father."     You  might,  for  you  can, 

Call  me 

Mrs.  Viz.  What] 

Blount.  Hang  it,  madam,  a  fine-looking  man. 

But  at  once  to  the  truth  which  your  cunning  secretes, 

How  came  Lucy  and  you,  ma'am,  at  night  in  the  streets  1 
Mrs.  Viz.  I  remember.     Poor  Lucy  so  begged  and  so  cried 

On  that  day,  a  year  since 

Blount.  Well  ! 

Mrs.  Viz.  Her  poor  mother  died  ; 

And  all  her  wounds  opened,  recalling  that  day  ; 

She  insisted — I  had  not  the  heart  to  say  nay — 

On  the  solace  religion  alone  can  bestow  ; 

So  I  led  her  to  church, — does  that  anger  you  1 
Blount.  No ! 

But  at  nightfall 

Mrs.  Viz.  I  knew  that  the  church  would  be  dark  : 

And  thus  nobody  saw  us,  not  even  the  clerk.* 
Blount.      And  returning 

*Clerk,  like  "  Derby,"  is  often  pronounced  broadly,  as  if  "  Clark"  and  "  Darby," 
throughout  JS_.gland. 


ACT  II. 


•25 


Mrs.  Viz. 
Blount. 
Mrs.  Viz 
Blount 
Mrs.  Viz. 
Blount. 
.iIbs.  Viz. 


Blount. 


Mrs.  Viz.  We  fell  into  terrible  danger. 

Sir,  the  Mohawks 

Blount.      I  know  ;  you  were  saved  by  a  stranger. 

He  escorted  you  home;   called  the  next  clay,  I  hear. 
But  1  soon  sent  li.m  off  with  a  flea  in  his  ear. 
S.nce  that  day  the  voung  villain  has  seen  her. 

Oh,  no! 
Yes. 

And  where  ? 

At  the  window. 

You  do  not  say  so  ! 
What  deceivers  girls  are  !  how  all  watch  they  befool ! 
One  should  marry  them  off,  ere  one  sends  them  to  school  ! 
Ay,  I  think  you  are  right.     All  our  plans  have  miscarried. 
Go  ;  send  Lucy  to  me — it  is  time  she  were  married. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Vizard,  r.  n. 
Blount   {alone  at  c).  When  I  first  took  this  orphan,  forlorn  and  alone, 
From  the  poor  village  inn  where  1  sojourned  unknown, 
My  compassion  no  feeling  more  sensitive  masked. 
Site  was  grateful — that  pleased  me  ;  was  mo:e  than  I  asked. 
'Twas  in  kindness  I  screened  myself  under  false  names, 
For  she  told  me  Iter  father  had  fought  lor  King  James  ; 
And,  hiNuuedin  the  Jacobite's  pestilent  error, 
In  a  Roundhead  she  sees  but  a  bugbear  of  tenor. 
And  troni  me,  Selden  B'ount,  who  invoked  our  f  ee  lawa 
To  behead  or  to  hang  all  who  side  with  that  cause, 
She  would  start  with  a  shudder  !  0  fool !  how  a'  ove 
Human  weakness  I  thought  myself  ?     This,  then,  is  love  ! 
Heavens!   to  lose  her — resign  to  another  those  charms  ! 
No,  no  !  never!     Why  yield  to  such  idle  alarms  .' 
What's  that  fop  she  has  seen  scarcely  once  in  a  way 
To  a  man  like  myself,  whom  she  sees  every  day  '! 
Mine  she  must  be  !   but  how  ! — the  world's  laughter  I  dread. 
Tut !   the  world  will  not  know,  if  in  secret  we  wed. 

Enter  Lucy,  ly  r.  d. 

Lucy.  Dear  sir,  you  look  pale.     Are  you  ill  ? 

Blount.  Ay,  what  then  ? 

What  am  I  in  your  thoughts  ? 

Lucy.  The  most  generous  of  men. 

Can  you  doubt  of  the  orphan's  respectful  affection, 
When  she  owes  even  a  home  to  your  sainted  protection? 

Blount.     In  that  home  I  had  hoped  for  your  youth  to  secure 
Safe  escape  from  the  perils  that  threaten  the  pure  ; 
But,  alas  !  where  a  daughter  of  Eve  is,  I  fear 
That  the  serpent  will  still  be  found  close  at  her  ear. 

Lucy.         You  alarm  me  ! 

Blount.                             I  ought.     Ah,  what  danger  you  ran  ! 
You  have  seen — have  conversed  with 

Lucy.  Well,  well. 

Blount  (c  ).  A  young  m^n. 

Lucy  'b.  c.)    Nav,  he  is  not  so  frightful,  dear,  sir,  as  you  deem  ; 
If  you  only  but  knew  him,  I'm  sure  you'd  esteem. 
He's  so  civil — so  pleasant — the  sole  thing  1  feat- 
Is — heigh-ho  !  are  fine  gentlemen  always  sincere  ? 

Blount.      You  are  lost  if  you  heed  not  the  words  that  I  say. 


26 


WALl'OLE. 


Ah  !  young  men  are  not  now  what  they  were  in  my  day. 

Then  their  fashion  was  manhood,  their  1  mguage  was  truth, 

And  their  love  was  as  fresh  as  a  world  in  iis  youth; 

Now  they  fawn  like  a  courtier,  and  lib  like  his  flunkeys, 

Aud  their  hearts  are  as  old  as  the  laces  of  monkeys. 

Locy.  Ah  !  you  know  not  Sir  Sidney 

Blount.  Hi-  nature  I  do, 

For  he  owned  to  my  friend  his  designs  upon  you. 
Luct.  What  designs  1  {comes nearer  to  Blount.) 

Blount.  Of  a  nature  too  dreadful  to  name. 

Lucy.  TIow  !     His  words  full  of  honor 

Blount.  Veiled  thoughts  full  of  shame. 

Heard  you  never  of  sheep  in  wolfs  clothing  ?     Why  weep  ? 
Lucy.  Indeed,  sir,  he  don't  look  the  least  like  a  sheep. 

Blount.      No,  the  sheepskin  for   clothing  much  fn  er  he  trucks; 

Wolves  are  nowaday  clad  not  as  sheep — but  as  i  ticks. 

:Tis  a  false  heart  you  find  where  a  line  dress  you  see, 

And  a  lover  sincere  is  a  plain  man  like  me. 

Dismiss,  thm,  dear  c!ii  d.  this  young  beau  from  your  mind— 

A  young  beau  should  be  bathed  hy  pood  young  womankind. 

At  the  best  he's  a  creature  accustomed  to  roam  ; 

Tis  at  sixty  man  learns  how  to  value  a  home. 

Idle  fancies  throng  quick  at  your  credulous  age, 

And  their  cure  is  companionship,  cheerful,  but  sage. 

So,  in  fir  ure,  I'll  give  you  much  more  of  my  own. 

Weeping  still  ! — I've  a  heart,  and  it  is  not  of  stone. 
Luct.  Pardon,  sir,  these  vain  tears  ;  nor  believe  that  I  mourn 

For  a  false-hearteii 

Blount.  Coxcomb,  who  merits  but  scorn. 

We  must  give  you  some  change — purer  air,  livelier  scene — 

And  your  mind  will  soon  win  back  its  temper  serene. 

You  must  quit  this  du  I  court  with  its  shocking  look-out. 

Yes,  a  cot  is  the  home  of  contentment,  no  doubt. 

A  sweet  cot  with  a  garden — waded  round — shall  be  ours, 

Where  our  hearts  shall  unite  in  the  passion — for  flowers. 

Ah  !  I  know  a  retreat,  from  all  turmoil  remote, 

In  the  suburb  of  Lambeth — soon  reached  by  a  boat. 

So  that  every  spare  moment  to  business  not  due 

I  can  give,  my  sweet  Lucy,  to  rapture  and  >ou. 
Lucy  (aside).  What  means  he  1    His  words  and  bis  looks  are  alarming  ; 

(aloud)  Mr.  Jones,  you're  too  good  ! 
Blount.  What,  to  find  you  so  oharmn  g  1 

Yes;  tho'  Fortune  has  placed  my  condition  above  you, 

Yet  Love  levels  all  tanks.     Be  not  staitled — I  love  you. 

From  all  dreams  less  exalted  your  fancies  arouse  ; 

The  poor  orphan  1  raise  to  the  rank  of  my  spouse. 
Lucy  (aside).  Wnat !     His  spouse  !     Do  I  dream  1 
Blount.  Till  that  moment  arrives, 

Train  your  mind  to  reflect  on  the  duty  of  wives. 

I  must  see  Mistress  Vizard,  and  all  things  prepare  ; 

To  secure  our  retreat  shall  this  day  be  my  care. 

And — despising  the  wretch  who  has  caused  us  such  sorrow — 

Our  two  lives  shall  unite  in  the  cottage  to-morrow. 

Lucy.  Pray  excuse  me — this  talk  is  so  strangely 

Blount.  Delightful! 

Lucy  (aside),  I  am  faint ;  I  am  all  of  a  tremble  ;  Low  frightful ! 

[Exit,  R.  D. 


ACT   II.  27 

Blount.      Good  ;  my  mind  overawes  her !      From  fear  love  will  grow. 
And  by  this  Lime  to-morrow  a  fig  for  the  beau,  {calling  off,  r.) 
Mistress  Vizard  ! 

Enter  Mrs.  Vizard,  r.  d. 

Blount.  Guard  well  my  dear  Lticy  to-day, 

For  to-morrow  I  free  you,  and  bear  h°r  away. 
I  agree  with  yourself — it  is  lime  she  were  married, 
And  I  only  regret  that  so  long  I  have  tarried. 
Eno' !  I've  proposed. 
Mrs.  Viz.  She  consented  1 

Blount.  Of  course  ; 

Must  a  man  like  myself  get  a  wife,  ma'am,  by  force  ?  (voice 

of  Newsman,  at  back,  and  the  ringing  of  hand-bell) 
Great  news,   (crosses  l.  to  r.,  while  crying  out ) 
Mrs.  Viz.  (running  to  the  window,  listening  and  repeating).   What!  "Lord 
Nithsdale  escaped  from  the  Tower."  (Nithsdale  peeps 
through  l.  d. 
"  In  his  wife's  clothes  disguised  !  the  gown  gray,  with  red 

flower, 
Mantle  black,  trimmed  with  ermine  "     My  hearing  is  hard. 
Mr.  Blount,  Mr.  B  ount !     Do  you  hear  the  reward  ? 

Blount.      Yes;  a  thousand 

Mks   Viz.  What !  guineas? 

Blount.  Of  course  ;  come  away. 

I  go  now  for  the  parson — do  heed  wh.it  I  say.  (Nitusdali* 

shakes  his  fist  at  Mrs.  Vizafd,  and  retreats) 
We  shall  marry  to-morrow — no  witne-s  but  you; 
For  the  marriage  is  private.     I'm  Junes  still.     Adieu  . 

[Exit  Blount,  d.  f.      Lucy  peeps  out  r.  d. 
Mas.  Viz.  Ha  !  a  thousand  good  guineas  !   (looks  l.  d.) 

Re-enter  Blount,  d.  f. 

Blount.  Guard  closely  my  treasure. 

That's  her  door  ;  for  precaution  just  lock  it. 
Mrs.  Viz.  With  pleasure,  (as  she  shows 

out  Blount,  d.  f.,  Lucy  slips  out  r.  d.  and  goes  up  l.) 
Lucy  (tries  l.  d.).  Eli  !  locked  up  !    No,  1  yet  may  escape  if  I  hide,  (gets 
behind  the  window-curtains,  up  R.) 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Vizard,  d.  f. 

Mrs.  Viz.  Shall  I  act  on  this  news  7     I  must  quickly  decide. 

Surely  Nithsdale  it  is  !     Gray  gown,  sprigged  with  red  ; 
Did  not  walk  like  a  woman — a  stride,  not  a  tread  (locks  r.  t>  ) 
Both  my  lambs  are  in  fold  ;   I'll  steal  out  and  inquire. 
Robert  Walpole  might  make  the  reward  somewhat  higher. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Vizard,  d.  f. 
Lucy   (looking  out  of  window).  Shedias  locked  the  street  door.     She  has 
gone  with  the  key, 
And  the  servant  is  out.     No  escape  ;  woe  is  me  ! 
How  I  love  him,  and  yet  I  must  see  him  with  loathing. 
Why  should  wolves  be  disguised  in  such  beautiful  clothing  7 
Nithsdale  (knocking  violently  at  h.  d  ).  Let  me  out.     I'll  not  perish  en- 
trapped.    Fiom  your  snare 


28 


WALfOLE. 


Thus  I  break {bursts  open  l.  d.,  and  comes  down  brandishing 

a  poker.)  Tieacherous  hag  ! 
Lucy.  Tis  the  wolf.     Spare  me  ;  spare  !  (kneeling  c., 

and  hiding  her  face.) 
Nithsdale.  She's  a  witch,  and  has  changed  herself? 
Lucy.  Do  not  come  near  me. 

Nithsdale.  Nay,  young  lady,  look  up ! 
Lucy.  'Tisawoman! 

Nithsdale.  Why  fear  me  1 

Perchance,  like  myself,  youre  a  prisoner  ? 
Lucy.  Ah,  yes  ! 

Nithsdale.    And  your  kinsfolk  are  true  to  the  Stuart,  I  guess  1 
Lucy.  My  poor  father  took  arms  for  King  James. 

Nithsdale.  So  did  I. 

Lucy.      You! — a  woman  !     How  brave. 
Nitusdale.  For  that  crime  I  must  die 

If  you  will  not  assist  me. 
Lucy.  Assist  you — liow  ?     Saw 

Nitusdale.   That  she-Judas  will  sell  me,  and  uoes  to  betray. 
Lucy.      Fly  !  Alas  !    she  has  locked  the  street-duor  ! 
Nitusdale.  Lady  fair, 

Does  not  Love  laugh  at  locksmiths  ?     Well  so  does  Despair  ! 
(glancing  at  the  window) 

Flight  is  here.     But  this  dress  my  detection  ensures. 

If  I  cou'd  but  exchange  hood  and  mantle  for  yours' 

Dare  1  ask  you  to  save  me  ! 
Lucy.  Nay,  doubt  not  my  will ; 

But  my  own  door  is  locked. 
Nithsdale  (raising  the  pokcr\.   And  the  key  is  heresi\\\.  (bursts  R.  d.  open 

and  exits,  r.  d.) 
Lucy.         I  have  read  of  the  Amazons  ;  this  must  be  one! 
Nithsdale  (entering  by  r.  d-,  with  hood,  gown,  and  mantle   on  his  arm)   I 

have  found  all  I  nee  I  for  the  risk  I  must  run. 
Lucy.        Can  I  help  you  1 
Nithsdale.  Heaven  bless  thee,  sweet  Innocence,  no. 

Haste,  and  look  if  no  backway  is  open  below. 

Stay ;  your  father  has  served  the  king  over  the  water  ; 

And  this  locket  may  please  your  brave  father's  true  daughter. 

The  gray  hair  of  p  tor  Charles,  interwined  with  the  pearl. 

Go  ;  vouchsafe  me  this  kiss.  (kUses  her  hand,  and  exits,  l.  d.) 
Lucy.  What  a  wonderful  girl !  [Exit,  b.  d. 

Scene  changes  to 
SCENE  III, — Exterior  of  Mrs.  Vizard's  house. 

Enter  Blount,  l.  3  e  ,  to  h.  c.  front. 

Blount.      For  the  curse  of  celebrity  nothing  atones. 

The  sharp  parson  I  call  on  ,as  simple  John  Jones, 

Has  no  sooner  set  eyes  on  my  popular  front, 

Than  he  cries,  "  Ha !  the  Patriot,  the  great  Selden  Blount !" 

Mistress  Vizard  must  hunt  up  some  priest  just  from  Cam, 

Who  may  gaze  on  these  features,  nor  guess  who  I  am.  (knocks 

at  d.  f.  in  l  2  e.  set. ) 
Not  at  home.     Servant  out  too  !     Ah  !  gone  forth,  I  guess, 


ACT  II.  29 

To  enchant  the  young  bride  with  a  new  wedding-dress. 
I  must  search  for  a  parson  myself. 

Enter  Bellair   r   d.  e.,  and  through  posts. 

Bellair.  {slapping  Blount  on  the  shoulder).  Blount,  your  news  1 

Blount.     You  !   and  here,  sir  !     What  means 

Bellair.  My  impatience  excuse. 

You  have  seen  her  1 
Blount.  I  have. 

Bellair.  And  have  pleaded  mv  cause: 

And  of  course  she  consents,  for  she  loves  me.     You  pause. 

Blount.      Nay,  alas  !  my  dear  friend 

Bellair.  Speak,  and  tell  me  my  fate. 

Blount.      Quick  and  rash  though  your  wooing  be,  it  is  too  late  ; 

She  lias  promised  her  hand  lo  another.     Bear  up. 
Bellair.    There  is  many  a  slip  :twixt  the  lip  and  the  cup. 

Ah  !  my  rival  I'll  fight.     Say  his  name  if  you  can. 
Blount.      Mr.  Jones.     I  am  told  he's  a  fine-looking  man. 
Bellair.    His  address? 
Blount.  Wherefore  ask  1     You  kill  her  in  this  duel — 

Slay  the  choice  of  her  heart ; 
Bellair  Of  her  heart ;  you  are  cruel. 

But  if  so,  why,  Heaven  bless  her  ! 
Blount.  My  arm — come  away  ! 

Bellair      No,  my  carriage  waits  yonder.     I  thank  you.      Good-day. 

[Exit,  l.  3~e. 
Blount.     He  is  gone  ;  I  am  safe — (shaking  his  left  hand  with  his  right) 
wish  you  joy,  my  dear  Jones  !  [Exit,  r.  u.  e. 

Nithsdale,  disguised  in  Lucy's  dress  and  mantle,  opens  the  upper  window. 

Nithsdale.  All  is  still.   How  to  jump  without  breaking  my  bones  1  {try- 
ing to  flatten  his  petticoats,  and  with  one  leg  over  the  balcony) 
Curse  these  petticoats  !     Heaven!  out  of  all  my  lost  riches, 
Why  couldst  thou  not  save  me  one  thin  pair  of  breeches  ! 

Steps  !  {gets  back — shuts  the  ivindow.) 

Re-enter  Bellair,  l   d.  3  e. 

Bellair.  But  Blount  may  be  wrong.     From  her  own  lips  alone 

Will  I  learn,   {looking  up  at  the  window)  I   see   some  one ;  I'll 
venture  this   stone,  (picks  uv,  and  throws  a  pebble  at  upper 
window.) 
NiTnsDALE  (opening  the  ivindow}.    Joy  ! —the  signal  ! 
Bellair.  Tis  you  ;  say  my  friend  was  deceived.  (Nithsdale  nods) 

You  were  snared  into 

Nithfdale.  Hush  ! 

Bellair.  Could  you  guess  how  I  grieved! 

But  oh  !  fly  from  this  jail ;  I'm  still  full  of  alarms. 

I've  a  carriage  at  hand  ;  trust  yourself  to  these  arms. 

Nithsdale  tacks  up  his  petticoats,  gets  down  the  balcony  backwards,  setting 
his  foot  on  the  area  rail. 

Bellair.    Powers  above  !— what  a  leg ! 


30 


WALPOLE. 


Lord   Nitusdale  turns  round  on  the  rail,  rejects  Bell  air's  hand   and 
jumps  down. 

Bellair.  0  my  charmer !  one  kiss, 

Nithsdalb.   Are  you  out  of  your  senses  ? 
Bellair  {trying  to  p/dl  uo  her  hood).    With  rapture  ! 
Nithsqale  (striking  him).  Take  tliis. 

Bellair.     What  a  fist  !      If  it  hits  one  so  hard  before  marriage, 

What  would  it  do  after  ? 
Nithsdalk.  Quick — where  is  the  carriage  ? 

Now,  sir,  give  me  your  hand. 
Bellair.  I'll  be  harmed  if  I  do 

Till  I  snatch  my  first  kiss  !  (lifts  the  hood  and  recoils  astounded) 
Who  the  devil  are  you  '.   (Nitusdale 
tries  to  gel  from  him.     A  struggle.      Bellair  prevails.) 
Bellair  (a).   I  will  give  you  in  charge,  or  this  moment  confess 
How  you  pass  as  my  Lucy,  and  wear  her  own  dress  ? 
Nitasdale  (aside).  What!     His  Lucy  ?     I'm  saved. 

To  her  pity  I  owe 
This  last  chance  for  my  life  ;  would  you  sell  it,  sir  ] 
Bellair.  No. 

But  your  life  !     What's  your  name  ?     Mine  is  Sidney  Bellair. 
Nitusdale.   Who  in  Parliament  p'eaded  so  nobly  to  spare 

From  the  axe 

Bellair.  The  chiefs  doomed  in  the  Jacobite  rise  1 

Nitusdale  (with  dignity).  I  am  Nithsdale. — Quick — sell  me  or  free  me 

— time  Hies. 
Bellair.     Come   this  way.     There's  my  coach,  (points  l.)  I  will  take 
you  myself 
Where  you  will  ; — ship  you  off. 
Nitusdale.  Do  you  side  with  the  Guelph  ? 

Bellair.     Yes.     WLat  then ' 

Nitusdale.  You  would  risk  your  own  life  by  his  laws 

Did  vou  ship  me  to  Fiance.     They  who  fight  in  a  cause 
S.iould  alone  share  its  perils.     Farewell,  generous  stranger! 
(goes  up.) 
Bellair.     Pooh  !   no  gentleman  leaves  a  young  lady  in  danger  ; 

You'd  be  mobbed  eie  you  got  h  •  I f  a  yard  through  the  town  ; 
Why    that    stride    and  that   calf — let  me  settle  your  gown. 
(clinging  to  him  and  leading  him  l  ,  and  speaking  as  they 
exeunt  l.  3  e. 
No,  no  ;    I  will  see  you  at  least  to  my  carriage,  (offh.) 
To  what  place  shall  it  drive  ? 
Nitusdale  (offh  ).  To  Blackwall. 

Lucy  appears  at  the  window. 

Lucy.  Hatefn'  marriage  ! 

But  where's  that  poor  lady  1     What !— gone  ?     She  is  free  \ 
Could  she  leap  from  the  window  1  I  wish  I  were  she.  (retreats.) 

He-enter  Bellair,  l.  3  e. 

Bellair.     Now  she's  safe  in  ray  coach,  on  condition  I  own, 
Not  flattering,  sweet  creature,  to  leave  her  alone. 
Lucy  (peeping).  It  is  he. 


ACT  ir. 


:i 


Bellair, 


Lucy. 
Bellair. 


Lucy. 

Bellair. 


I.UCY 

Bellair. 
Lucy. 


Bellair. 

Lucy. 

Bellair. 


Lucy. 

Bellair. 

Lucy. 

Bellair. 

Lucy. 

Bellair. 

Lucy. 

Bellair. 

Lucy. 


Bellair. 

Lucy. 

Bellair. 


Lucy. 
Bellair. 


Luci 


Ah  !  If  Lucy  would  only  appear  !  (stoops  to  pick  up 
a  stone,  and  in  the  net  to  fling  as  Lucy  reappears) 

0  my  Lacy  ! — mine  angel  ! 

Why  is  lie  so  dear  ? 
Is  it  true  ?     Fiom  thai  lace  am  I  evermore  banished  ?. 
In  your  love  was  the  dream  of  my  life  !     Is  it  vanished  ? 
Have  you  pledged  to  another  your  hand  and  your  heart"? 
Not  my  heart.     Oh,  not  that. 

But  your  hand  1     By  what  art, 
By  what  force,  are  you  won  heart  and  hand  to  dissever, 
And  consent  to  loathed  nuptials  thai  part  us  forever  ] 
Would  that  pain  you  so  much  1 

Can  you  ask  ?     Oh,  believe  me, 
You're  my  all  in  the  world  ! 

I  am  told  you  deceive  m°  ; 
That  you  harbor  designs  which  my  lips  dare  net  name, 
And  your  words  full  of  honor  veil  thoughts  full  of  shame 
Ah,  sir  !  I'm  so  young  and  so  friendless — so  weak  ! 
Do  not  ask  for  my  heart  if  you  take  it  to  break. 
Who  cm  slander  me  thus  !     N^t  my  friend,  I  am  sure, 
His  friend  ! 

Can  my  love  know  one  feeling  impure 

When  I  lay  at  your  feet  all  I  have  in  this  life 

Wealth  and  rank   name  a1  d  honor— and  woo  you  as  wife? 
As  your  wife  !     All  about  you  seems  so  much  above 

My  mean  lot 

And  so  worthless  compared  to  your  love. 
You  reject,  then,  this  suitor? — my  hand  you  accept  ? 
Ah  !   but  do  you  not  see  in  what  prison  I'm  kept  ? 

And  this  suitor 

You  hate  him  ! 

Till  this  day,  say  rather — - 
What? 

1  loved  him. 

You  loved ! 

As  I  might  a  grandfather. 
He  has  shielded  the  orphan  ; — I  had  not  a  notion 
That  he  claimed  from  me  more  than  a  givn  lchild's  devotion. 
And  my  heart  ceased  to  beat  between  terror  and  sorrow 
When  he  said  he  would  make  me  his  wife  and  to-morrow. 
Ply  with  me,  and  at  once  ! 

She  has  locked  the  street-door. 
And  my  angel's  not  made  t  >  jump  down  from  that  floor. 
Listen — quick  ;  I  hear  voices  ; — I  save  you  ;  this  night 
I'll  arrange  all  we  need  both  for  wedlock  and  flight. 
A^.  what  time  afier  dark  does  your  she  dragon  cose 
Her  swi  et  eyes,  and  her  household  consign  to  repose  '/ 
About  nine  in  this  season  of  winter.     What  then  ? 
By  the  window  keep  watch.     When  the  clock  has  struck  ten 
A  slight  stone  smites  the  casement;     below  I  attend. 
You  will  see  a  safe  ladder;  at  ones  you  descend. 
We  then  reach   your  new  home,  pr'.est  and  friends  shall  be 

theie. 
Proud  to  bless  the  young  bride  of  Sir  Sidney  Bellair. 
Hush  !  the  steps  come  this  way  ;  do  not  fail  !     She  is  won. 

[Exit  Bellair,  l.  r>. 
Stay  ; — I  tremble  as  guilty.     Heavens  !   what  have  1  done  ? 

CURTAIN. 


;>'2  WAU'OLE.' 

ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.— SI.  James's  Pari:. 

Enter    Blount. 

Boont.      So  the  parson  is  found  and  ilie  cottage  is  hired — 
Every  fear  was  dispelled  when  my  rival  retired. 
Even  my  stern  mother  country  must  spare  from  my  life, 
A  brief  moon  of  that  honey  one  tastes  with  a  wife  ! 
And  then  strong  as  a  giant,  recruited  by  sleep, 
On  corruption  and  Walpole  my  fury  sh  .11  sweep, 
'Mid  the  cheers  of  the  House  I  will  state  in  my  place 
How  the  bribes  that  he  proffered  were  flung  in  his  f  ce. 
Men  shall  class  me  amid  those  examples  of  worth 
Which,  alas ;   became  daily  more  rare   on  this  earth;  (takes 

seat  on  bench,  l) 
And  Posterity,  setting  its  brand  on  the  front 
Of  a  Walpole,  select  for  its  homage  a  Blount. 

Enter  Bellair,  v..,gayly  singing. 

Bellair.     "The  dove  builds   where  the  leaves  are  still  geen   on  the 

tree " 

Blount  (rising).  Ha ! 

Bellair.  "  For  May  and  December  can  never  agree." 

Blount.      I  am  glad  you'\e  so  quickly  got  over  that  blow. 

Bellair.     Fallala ! 

Blount  (aside).    What  this  levity  memis  I  must  know. 

(aloud)  The  friend  I  best  loved  was  your  father,  Bellair — 

Let  me  hope  your  strange  mirth  is  no  laugh  of  despair. 
Bellair.     On  the  wit  of  the  wisest  man  it  is  no  stigma 

It'  the  he  irt  of  a  girl  is  to  him  an  enigma  ; 

That  my  Lucy  was  lost  to  my  arm*  you  believed — 

Wish  mo  joy,  my  dear  B  ount,  you  were  grossly  deceived. 

She  is  mine  ! — What  on  earth  are  you  thinking  about  ? 

Do  you  hear  1 
Blount.  I  am  racked  ! 

Bellair.  What? 

Blount.  A  twinge  of  the  gout    (reseating  himself.) 

Pray  excuse  me. 
Bellair.  Nay,  rather  myself  I  reproach 

For  not  heeding  your  pain.     Let  me  call  you  a  coach. 
Bl<>unt.      Nay,  nay,  it  is  gone.     I  am  eager  to  hear 

How  I've  been  thus  dece.ved — make  my  blunder  more  cbar. 

You  have  seen  her? 
Billair.  Of  course.     From  her  own  lips  leather 

That  your  good  Mr.  Jones  might  be  Lucy's  grandfather. 

Childish  fear,  or  of  Vizard — who  seems  a  virago — 

Or  the  old  man  himself 

Blount.  Oh  ! 

IJellair.  You  groan  ? 

Blount.  The  lumbago  ! 

Bellair.     Ah  !  they  say  gout  is  shifty — now  here  and  now  there. 

Blount.       Pooh  ! — continue.     The  girl  then 


act  in.  33 

Bellair.  I  fo"nd  in  despair. 

Bat  no  matter — all's  happily  settled  at  last. 
Blount.      Ah  !  eloped  from  ihe  house  1 
Bell.ur.  No,  the  door  was  made  fast. 

But  to-night  I  would  ask  you  a  favor. 
Blount.  What?     Say. 

Bellaib.     If  your  pain  should  have  left  you,  to  give  her  away. 

For  myself  it  is  meet  that  I  take  every  care 

That  my  kinsfo  k  shall   haH  the  new  Lady  Bellair. 

I've  induced  my  two  aunts    (who  are  prudish)  to  grace 

With  their  presence  my  house,  where  the  nuptials  take  place. 

And  to  act  as  her  father  there's  no  man  so  fit 

As  yourself,  dear  old  Blount,  if  the  gout  will  pernnit. 

Blount.      'Tis  an  honor 

Bellair.  Say  pleasure. 

Blount.  Great  pleasure  !     Proceed. 

How  is  she,  if  the  door  is  still  fast,  to  bo  freed? 

Is  the  house  to  be  stormed? 
Bellair.  Nay  ;  I  told  you  before 

That  a  house  has  its  windows  as  well  as  its  door. 

And  a  stone  at  the  pane  for  a  signal  suffices, 

While  a  ladder 

Blount.  I  see.  {aside)   What  infernal  devices  ! 

Has  she  no  maiden  fear 

Bellair.  From  the  ladder  to  fall  1 

Ask  her  that — when  we  meet  at  my  house  in  Whitehall. 

Enter  First  Jacobite  Lord,  l. 

Lord  {giving  note  to  Bellair).  If  I  err  not  I  speak  to  Sir  Sidney  Bellair  J 
Pray  vouchsafe  me  one  moment  in  private,  {draws  him  aside,  l.) 

Blount.  Despar! 

How  prevent  1—  how  forestall  ?     Could  I  win  but  delay, 
I  might  yet  brush  this  stinging  fly  out  of  my  way. 

While  he  speaks,  enter  Veaset,  b. 

Veaset.      Ah  !  Be'.lair  whispering  close  with  that  Jacobite  lord 

Are  they  hatching  some  plot  1  {hides  between  wing  and  scene,  b., 
listening.) 

Bellair  {reading).  So  he's  safely  on  board 

Lobd.  And  should  Fortune  shake  out  other  lots  from  her  urn, 

We  poor  friends  of  the  Stuart,  might  serve  you  in  turn. 

You  were  talking  with  Blount— Selden  Blount— is  he  one 

Of  your  friends  1 
Bellaib.  Ay,  the  truest. 

Lobd.  Then  warn  him  to  shun 

That  vile  Jezahel's  man  trap — I  know  he  goes  there. 

Whom  she  welcomes  she  sells. 
Bellair.  I  will  bid  him  beware,  {shakes  hands.) 

[Exit  Jacobite  Lord,  l. 
Bellair  {to  Blount).   I  have  just  learned  a  secret,  'tis  fit  I  should   tell 
you. 

Go  no  more  to  old  Vizard's,  or  know  she  will  sell  you. 

Nithsdale  hid  in  her  house  when  the  scaffold  he  fled. 

She  received  him,  and  went  for  the  price  on  his  head  ; 


34 


WALPOLE. 


Blount. 
Bellair 
Blount. 
Bellair 
Blount 

Bellair 
Blount. 

Bellair 
Blount. 


Bellair 


Blount. 
Bellair 

Blount 


But — the  droilest  mistake— of  that  tale  by-and-bye— 
He  was  freed  ;  is  sate  now  ! 

Who  delivered  liitn? 
I. 
Ha  !  you— did  ! 

See,  he  sends  me  this  letter  of  thanks. 
(reading).  W.  ieii  invites  you  to  join  with  the  Jacobite  ranks. 

And  when  James  h.ts  hid  kingdom 

'i'nat  chance  is  remote  ; 
Hints  an  earldom  for  you. 

Bah  ! 

Take  care  of  this  note,  (appears 
to  thrust  it  into  Bell  air's  coat-pocket — lets  it  fall  and  pats 
his  foot  on  it.) 
,     Had  1  guessed  that  the  hag  was  so  greedy  of  gold, 
Long  ago  I  had  bought  Lucy  out  of  her  |u>ld  ; 
But  to-night  the  dear  child  will  be  free  from  her  power. 

Alien  !     I  expect,  then 

Hold  !  at  what  hour  ? 
By  the  window  at  len,  self  and  ladder  await  her  ; 
The  wedding — eleven  ;  you  will  not  be  later.  [Exit,  R 

(picking  up  the  letter).  Nithsdale's  letter.    Bright  thought ! — and 
what  luck  !     I  see  Veasey. 


uter  Bellair,  r. 


Bellair.     Blount,  I  say.  w  11  o'd  Jones  be  to-morrow  uneasy  ? 

Can't  you  fai  cy  Ids  face  1 
Blount.  Yes  ;  ha  !  ha  ! 

Bellair.  I  am  off     [Exit,  r. 

Blount-     What!  shall  I  Selden  Blount,  be  a  popp'rijay's  scoff  ? 

Mr.  Veasey,  your  servant. 
Veasey.  I  trust,  on  the  whole, 

That  you've  settled  with  Walpole  the  prices  of  coal. 
Blount.      Coala  be — lighted  below  !     Sir,  the  country's  in  danger. 
Veasey.      To  that  fact  Walpole  says  that  no  patr  ot's  a  stranger. 
Blount.      With  the  safety  of  England  myself  I  will  task, 

If  von  hold  your> elf  licensed  to  srant  what  I  ask. 
Veasey.      Whatsoever  the  terms  of  a  patriot  so  staunch, 

Walpole  gives  you — I  speak  as  his  proxy — carte  blanche. 
Blount.      If  J.  break  private  ties  where  the  Public's  at  stake, 

Still  my  friend  is  my  fiend  ;  the  condition  I  make 

Is  to  '.^ep  him  shut  up  from  all  share  in  rash  strife, 

And  secure  him  from  danger,  to  fortune  and  life. 
Veasey.      Blount — asreed.     And  this  friend  !     Scarce  a  moment  ago 

I  marked  Sidney  Bellair  in  ctose  talk  with 

Blount.  I  know. 

There's  a  plot  to  be  checked  ere  it  start  into  shape. 

Hark  !  Bellair  had  a  hand  in  Lord  Nithsdale's  escape  ! 
Veasey.      That's  abetment  of  treason. 

Blount.  Bead   this,  and   attend,  (gives  Niths- 

dale's note  to  Bellair.  which  Veasey  reads) 

Snares  atrocious  ate  s»H  to  entrap  my  poor  friend 

In  an  outbreak  to  fo'low  that  Jacobit  -'s  fight 

Veasey.     In  an  outbreak  1     Where  1—  when  ? 

Blount.  Hush!  in  L~>r  don  to-night 


act  in.  85 

He  is  thoughtless  and  young.     Act  on  this  information. 

Quick,  arrest  him  at  once;  and  watch  over  the  nation. 
Veaset.      No  precaution  too  greal  against  men  disaffected. 
Blocxt.      And  tne  law  gives  you  leave  10  confine  the  suspected. 
Veasey.      Ay,  this  nole  will  suffice  lor  a  warrant.     Be  sine, 

Ere  the  dock  strike  the  quarter,  your  friend  is  secure. 

[Exit  Veasey,  k. 
Blodnt.      Good;  my  rival  to-night  will  be  swept  "from  my  way, 

And  John  Jones  shall  wake  easy  euo'  ihe  next  day. 

Do  I  sti  1  love  this  girl  ?     No,  my  hate  is  so  strufig, 

That  to  me,  whom  she  mocks,  she  alone  shall  belong. 

1  need  trust  to  that  saleable  Vizard  no  more. 

Ha  !  1  stand  as  Bellair  the  bride's  window  before. 

Oh,  when  love  comes  so  late  how  it  maddens  the  brain, 

Between  shame  for  our  folly,  and  rage  at  our  pain  !  [Exit,  l. 

Scene  changes  to 

SCENE  II. — Boom  in  Walpole's  house. 

Enter  Walpole.  k. 

Walpole.  So    Lord  Nithsdale's.  shipped  off.     There's  an  end   of  one 

trouble 
When  his  head's   at   Boulogne  the    reward   shall  be  double 

(seating   himself,  R.  c  ,  takes   up    a    book — glances  at  it,  and 

th/ows  it  down) 
Stuff'!   I  wonder  what  lies  the  Historians  will  tell 
When  they  babble  of  one  Robert  Walpo'e  !     Well,  well, 
Let  them  sneer  at  his  nlun  lers,  declaim  on  his  vices, 
Cite  the  rogues  whom  he  purchased,  and  rail  at  the  prices, 
They  shall  own  that  all  lust  for  revenge  he  withstood  ; 
And,  if  lavish  of  gold,  he  was  sparing  of  blood  ; 
That  when  E  gland  was  threatened  by  France  and  by  Rome, 
He  foiced  peace  from  abroad  and  encamped  at  her  home 
And  th*  Freedom  he  left   rooted  firm  in  mild  laws, 
May  o'ershadow  the  faults  of  deeds  done  in  her  cause ! 

Enter  Veasey,  l. 

Veasey  {giving  note).  Famous  news  !   see,  Bellair  has  delivered  himself 
To  your  hands.     He  must  go  heart  and  soul  wiih  the  Guelph, 

And  vote  straight,  or  he's  ruined. 
Walpole  {reading).  This  note  makes  it  clear 

That  he's  guilty  of  Nithsdale's  escape. 
Veasey.  And  I  hear 

That  to-night  he  will  head  som?  tumultuous  revolt, 

Unless  chained  to  his  stall  like  a  mischevious  colt. 
Walpole.  Your  informant  ? 
Veasey.  Guess!     Blount;  but  on  prom'se  to  save 

His  young  friend's  life  and  fortune  ! 
Walpole.  What  Blount  says  is  grave. 

He  would  never  thus  speak  if  not  sure  of  this   fact,  {signing 
warrant) 

Here,  then,  take  my  Stale  warrant  ;  but  cautiously  act. 

Bid  Bellair  keep  his  house — forb:d  exi:s  and  entries  ; — 

To  make  sure,  at  his  door  place  a  couple  of  sentries. 


>6 


"WALPOLE. 


Say  I  mein  liim  no  ill  ;  but  those  times  will  excuse 
Much  less  gentle  precautions  than  those  which  I  use. 
Stay,  D.nne  Vizard  is  waiting  without  ;  to  her  den 
Nithsd.ile  fled.     She  came  here  to  betray  him 

Veasev.  What  then  ? 

Walpole.  Why,  I  kept  her,  perforce,  til  I  sent  on  the  sly, 

To  prevent  her  from  hearing  Lord  Nitlisdale's  good-bye. 
When  my  a'nent  arrived,  I  m  delighted  to  say 
Tha^  the  cig%-wire<  were  broken. — the  bird  flown  away  ; 
But  he  found  one  poor  captive  imprisoned  and  weeping  ; 
I  must  learn  how  that  captive  came  into  such  keeping. 
Now,  then,  off — nay,  a  moment ;  you  would  not  be  loth 
Just  to  stay  with  Bellair  1 — I  may  send  for  you  both. 

Veasey.      With  a  host  more  delightful  no  mortal  could  sup, 
But  a  guest  so  unlooked  for 

Walpole  Will  cheer  the  boy  up  ! 

[Exit  Veasey,  l. 

Walpole  {ringing  hand-bell). 

Enter  Servant,  l. 


Usher  in  Mistress  Vizard. 
[Exit  Servant,  who  ushers  in  Mrs.  V'zard. — Then  exit  Servant. 


Walpole 

Mrs.  Viz. 
Walpole. 
Mrs.  Viz. 

Walpole. 

Mrs.  Viz. 
Walpole. 

Mrs.  Viz. 
Walpole. 
Mrs.  Viz. 
Walpole. 


Mrs.  Viz 
Walpole 
Mrs.  Viz 
Walpole. 
Mrs.  Viz. 

Walpole. 


Mrs.  Viz. 
Walpole 
Mrs.  Viz. 
Walpole. 


Quite  shocked  to  detain  you, 
But  I  knew  a  mistake,  if  there  were  one,  would  pain  you. 
Sir,  mistake  there  is  not ;  that  vile  creature  is  no  man. 
But  you  locked  the  door  ? 

Fast. 

Then,  no  doubt,  'tis  a  woman, 
For  she  slipped  thro'  the  window. 

No  woman  durst  ! 
Nay. 
Wh -n  did  woman  want  courage  to  go  her  own  way  1 
You  jest,  sir.     To  me  'tis  no  subject,  for  laughter. 
Po  not  weep.     The  reward  ?     We'll  di-cuss  that  hereafter. 
You'd  not  wrong  a  poor  widow  who  brought  you  such  news? 
Wrong  a  widow  ! — there's  oil  to  put    i'i  her  cru  e.    {giving  a 

pocket-book) 
Meanwhile,  the  tried  agent  dispatched  to  your  house, 
In  that  trap  found  it  poor  little  terrified  mouse, 
Which  did  call  itself  "  Wilmot '' — a  name  known  to  me, 
Pray,  you.  how  in  your  trap  did  that  mouse  come  to  be  1 

{hesitatingly).   Sir,  believe  me 

Speak  truth — for  yonr  own  sake  you  ought. 
By  a  gentlermn.  sir,  to  my  house  she  was  brought. 
O.i  !  some  Jacobite  kinsman  perhaps  ? 

Bless  you,  no ; 
A  respectable  Roundhead.     You  frighten  me  so. 
A  respectable  Roundhead  entrust  to  your  care 
A  young  girl  whom  you  guard  as  in  prison  ! — Beware  ! 
'Gainst  decoy  for  vile  purpose  the  law  is  severe. 
Fie  !  you  libel  a  saint,  sir,  of  morals  austere. 
Do  you  mean  Judith  Vizard  1 

I  mean  Selden  Blount. 
I'm  bewildered  !     But  why  does  this  saint  (no  affront) 
To  your  pious  retreat  a  fair  damsel  confide! 


ACT     III.  37 

Mrs.  Viz-  To  protect  her  as  ward  till  lie  claims  her  as  bride. 
Walpole.  Faith,  his  saintship  does  well  until  that  day  arrive 

To  imprison  the  ruaid  he  proposes  to  wive. 

But  these  Roundheads  are  wont  but    with  Roundheads  to 
wed, 

And  the  name  of  this  lady  is  Wilmot,  she  said. 

Every  Wilmot  I  know  of  is  to  the  backbone 

A  rank  Jacobite  ;  say  can  that  name  be  her  own  7 
Mrs.  Viz.   Not  a  doubt ;    more  than  once  I  have  heard  the  girl  say 

That  her  father  had  fought  for  King  James  on  the  day 

When  the  ranks  of  the  Stuart  were  crushed  at  the  Boyne. 

He  escaped  from  the  slaughter,  and  fled  to  rejoin 

At  the  Court  of  St.  Germain's  his  new-wedded  bride. 

Long  their  hearth  without  prattles s  ;  a  year  ere  he  died, 

Lucy  came  to  console  her  who  mourned  him,  bereft 

Of  all  else  in  this  world. 
Walpole  (eagerly).  But  the  widow  he  left ; 

She  lives  still  1 
Mrs.  Viz.  No  ;  her  child  is  now  motherless. 

Walpole  (aside).  Fled  ! 

Fled  again  from  us,  sister  !     How  stern  are  the  dead  ! 

Their  dumb  lips  have  no  pardon  '     Tut !  shall  I  build  grief 

On  a  guess  that  perchance  only  fools  my  belief? 

This  may  not  be  her  child,  (rings. ) 

Enter  Servant,  l. 

My  coach  waits  7 
Servant.  At  the  door. 

Walpole.    Come  ;  your  hous<»  teems  with  secrets  I  long  to  explore. 
[Exeunt  Walpole  and  Mas.  Vizard,  l. — Exit  Servant,  l. 

Scene  changes  to 

SCENE  III. — Mrs.  Vizard's  house,  as  before.     A  lamp  on  a  table,  r.  c. 

Enter  Lucy,  r.  d. 

Lucy.  Mistress  Vizard  still  out !  (looking  at  the  clock)  What !  so  late  7 

0  my  heart ! — 
How  it  beats  !     Have  I  promised  in  stealth  to  depart  7 
Trust  him — yes  !     But  will  he,  ah  !  long  after  this  night, 
Trust  the  wife  wooed  so  briefly,  and  won  but  by  flight? 
My  lost  mother  !  (takes  a  miniature  from  her  breast)  Oh  couldst 

thou  yet  counsel  thy  child ! 
No,  this  lip  does  not  smile  as  it  yesterday  smiled. 
From  thine  heaven  can  no  warning  voice  come  to  mine  ear; 
Save  thy  chi'd  from  herself; — 'tis  myself  that  I  fear- 

Enter  Walpole  and  Mrs.  Vizard,  through  the  secret  door 

Mrs  Viz.  Lucy,  love,  in  this  gentleman  (curtsey,  my  dear) 

See  a  friend. 
Walpole.  Peace,  and  leave  us.         [Exit  Mrs.  Vizard,  b. 

Walpole  (a).  Fair  girl,  I  would  hear 

From  yourself,  if  your  parents 


38  WALPOLE. 

Lucy  ^r.  a).  My  parents;  Oh  say 

Did  you  know  them  1— my  mother? 
Walpole.  Tlie  years  roll  away. 

I  behold  a  gray  hall  hacked  by  woodlands  of  pine ; 

I  behold  a  fair  face  —eyes  and  tresses  like  thine — 

By  her  side  a  rude  boy  full  of  turbulent  life, 

All  impatient  of  rest,  and  all  binning  for  strife — 

They  are  brother  and  sister.     Unconscious  they  stand — 

On  the  spot  where  their  paths   shall  divide — hand  in  hand. 

Hush!  a  moment,  and  lo  !  as  if  lost  amid  night, 

She  is  gone  from  his  side,  she  is  snatched  from  his  sight. 

Time  has  flowed  on  its  course — that  wild  boy  lives  in  me  ; 

But  the  sister  I  lost !     Does  she  bloom  back  in  thee  ! 

Speak — the  name  of  thy  mother,  ere  changing  her  own 

For  her  lord's — who   her  parents  ? 
Lpct,  I  never  have  known. 

When  she  married  my  father,  they  spurned  her,  she  said, 

Bade  her  hold  herself  henceforth  to  them  as  the  dead  ; 

Slandered  him  in  whose  honor  she  gloried  as  wife, 

Urged  attaint  on  his  n.une,  plotted  snarts  for  his  life  ; 

And  one  day  when  I  asked  what  her  line?.ge,  she  sigln  d 

'•  From  the  heart  they  so  tortured  their  memory  has  died." 
Walpole    Civil  war  slays  all  kindred — all  mercy,  all  ruth. 
Lucy.  Did  you  know  her  1 — if  so,  was  this  like  her  in  youth  ?  (giv- 

ing miniature.') 
Walpole.  It  is  she  ;  the  1  ps  speak  !     Oh,  I  knew  it  .' — thou  art 

My  lost  sister  restored  ! — to  mine  ;  rms,  to  mine  heart. 

That  wild  brother  the  wrongs  of  his  race  shnll  atone  ; 

He  has  stormed  his  way  up  to  the  foot  of  the  throne. 

Yes  !  thy  mate  thou  Khali  choose  'mid  the  chiefs  cf  the  lar.d. 

Dost  thou  shrink  ? — heard  I  right  ? — is  it  promised  this  hand  ? 

And  to  one,  too,  of  years  so  unsuited  to  thine? 
Lucy.  Dare  I  tell  you  1 

Walpole.  Speak,  sure  that  thy  choice  shnll  be  mine. 

Lucy.  When  my  mother  lay  stricken  in  m  lid  and  in  frame, 

All  our  scant  savings  gone,  to  our  >  ucc  r  there  came 

A  rich  stranger,  who  lodged  at  the  inn  wh  nee  they  sought 

To  expel  us  as  vagrants.     Their  mercy  i  e  bought ; 

Ever  since  I  was  left  in  the  wide  world  alone, 

1  have  owed  to  his  pity -this  root' 

Walpole.  Will  you  own 

What  you  gave  in  return  1 
Lucy.  Grateful  reverence. 

Walpole.  And  so 

He  asked  more  ! 
Lucy.  Ah  !  that  more  was  not  mine  to  bestow. 

Walpole.  What !  your  heart  some  one  younger  already  had  won. 

Is  he  handsome  ? 
Lucy  Oh,  yes  ! 

"VALPt.i.,,.  And  a  gentleman's  son  ? 

Lucy.  Sir,  he  looks  it. 

Walpole.  His  name  is 

Lucy.  Sir  Sidney  Bellair. 

Walpole.  Eh  !  that  brilliant  Lothario  ?     Dear  Lucy,  beware  ; 

Men  of  temper  so  light  may  mike  love  in  mere  sport. 

Where  on  earth  did  you  m ->et  ?-  in  what  terms  did  he  court  1 


ACT    III.  39 

Why  so  troubled  ?     Why  turn  on  the  timepiece  your  eye  1 

Orphan,  trust  me. 

Lucy.  I  will.     I  half  promise!  to  fly 

Walpole.  With  Bellair.  {asile)  He  shall  answer  for  this  wilh  his  life. 

Fly  to-nigbt  as  his — what! 
Lucy.  Turn  your  face — as  his  wife.  (Lucy 

sinks  down,  buryinj  her  face  in  her  hands.) 
Walpole.  {going  to  d.  f)  Jasper — ho! 

Enter  Servant,  d.  p.,  as  he  writes  on  his  tablets. 

Take  my  coach  to  Sir  Sidney's,  Whitehall. 
Mr.  Ve.xsey  is  there  ;  give  him  this — that  is  all.  {tearing  out 

the  leaf  from  the  tablet  and  folding  it  up) 
Go  out  the  back  way ;  it,   is  nearest  my  carriage.*  {opens  the 

secret  door  l.  in  p  ,  through  which  exit  Servant) 
I  shall  very  soon  know  if  the  puppy  means  marriage. 
Lr/CY.  Listen  ;  ah  !   that's  his  signal  !    {tap  at  window.) 

Walpole.  A  stone  at  the  pane  ! 

But  it  can't  be  Bellair — he  is  safe. 
Lucy.  There,  a  sain  ! 

Walpole  {peeps  out  of  window).  Ho ! — a  ladder  !  Niece,  do  as  I  bid  you  ; 
confide 
In  my  word,  and  I  promise  Sir  Sidney  his  bride  ! 
Ope  the  window  and  whisper,  "  I'm  chained  to  the  floor; 
Pray  come  up  and  release  me." 
Lucy   {calls  out  of  window).  "  I'm  chained  to  the  floor. 

Pray,  come  up  and  release  me." 
Walpole.  I  watch  by  this  door. 

[Exit,  b.  d.,  and  peeps  out. 

Blount  enters  through  window. 

Lucy.  Saints  in  Heaven,  Mr.  Jones  !   (l.  c.) 

Walpole  {asidey  Selden  Blount,  by  old  N!ck  ! 

Blount.      What !    vou  are  not  then  chained  !     Must  each  word  be  a 
trick  ? 
Ah  !  you  looked  for  a  gallant  more  dainty  and  trim  ; 
He  deputes  me  to  say  he  abandons  his  whim  ; 
By  his  special  request  1  am  here  in  his  place, 
Saving  him  from  a  crime  and  yourself  from  disgrace. 
Still  ungrateful,  excuse  for  your  folly  I  make — 
Still  the  prize  lie  disd  dns  to  my  heart  I  can  take, 
Fly  with  me,  as  with  him  y<>u  would  rashly  have  fled ; — 
He  but  sought  to  degrade  you,  I  seek  but  to  wed. 
Take  revenge  on  the  f  tlse  heart,  give  bliss  to  the  true  ! 

L7C7.  If  he's  false  to  myself,  I  were  falser  to  you, 

Could  I  say  I  forget  him  ? 

Blount.  You  will,  when  my  wife. 

Lucy.  That  can  never  be 

Ll"Unt.  Never! 

LUCy.  One  love  lasts  thro'  life  ! 

Blount.      Traitress  !    think  not  this  insult  can  tamely  be  borne 


*In  obeying  this  instruction,  the  servant  would  not  see  the  ladder,  which  (as  the 
reader  will  learn  by  what  immediately  follows)  is  placed  against  the  baieony  in  the 
front  of  the  house. 


40  WALPOLE. 

Hearts  like  mine  are  too  proud  for  submission  to  scorn. 
You  are  here  at  my  mercy — Lliat  mercy  has  died  ; 
You  remain  as  my  victim  or  part  as  my  bride,  {lock*  l.  d.) 
See,  escape  is  in  vain,  and  all  others  desert  you  ; 
Let  these  arms  be  your  refuge. 
Walpole  {tapping  him  on  the  shoulder).   Well  said,  Public  Virtue  ! 

Blount,  slupijied,  drops  the  key,  which  Walpole  takes  up,  stepping  out  into 
the  balcony,  to  return  as  Blount,  recovering  himself,  mikes  a  rush  at 
the  window. 

H'alpole  {stopping  him).  As    you  justly  observed,    '   See,  escape  is  in 
vain  " — 
I  have  pushed  down  the  ladder. 

Blount    {laying  his  hand  on  his  sword).  'Sdeath  !   draw,  s  i  ! 

Walpole.  Auauuii 

From  (hat  worst  of  all  blunders,  a  profitless  crime. 
Cut  my  innocent  throat  ?     Fie  !  one  sin  at  a  time. 
Blount.      Sir,  mock  on,  I  deserve  it;  expose  me  to  shame, 

I've  o'erthrown  my  life's  labor, — an  honest  man's  name. 
Lucy  {stealing  up  to  Blount).  No  ;  a  moment  of  madness  can  not  sweep 
a  way 
All  I  owed,  and — forgive  me — have  failed  to  repay,  {to  Wal- 
pole ) 
Be  that  moment  a  secret. 
Walpole.  If  woman  can  keep  one, 

Tiien  a  secret's  a  secret.     Gad,  Blount,  you're  a  deep  one ! 
{knock  at  d.  f  — Walpole  opens  it.) 

Enter,  d.  f.,  Bellair  and  Veasey,  followed  by  Mrs.  Vizard. 

Bellair.  {not   seeing  Walpole,  who  is  concealed  behind  the  door  which  he 
opens,  and  hurrying  to  Blount). 

Faithless  man,  canst  thou  look  on  my  face  undismayed  ? 

Nithsdaie's  letter  disclosed,  and  my  friendship  betrayed  I 

What !   and  here  too  !     Why  here  ? 
Blount  {aside).  I  shall  be  the  town's  scoff. 

Walpole   {to  Bellair  and  Veasey).   Sirs,  methinks  that  you  see  not 
that  lady — hats  off. 

I  requested  your  presence,  Sir  Sidney  Bellair, 

To  make  known  what  you  owe  to  the  fiiend  who  stands  there. 

For  that  letter  disclosed,  your  harsh  language  recant — 

Its  condition  your  pardon; — full  pardon  I  grant. 

He  is  here— you  ask  why  ;  'tis  to  sive  you  to-night 

From  degrading  your  bride  by  the  scandal  of  flight,  {drawing 
him  aside) 

Or — hist  ! — did  you  intend  (whisper  close  in  my  ear) 

Honest  wedlock  with  one  so  beneath  you  I  fear  ? 

You  of  lineage  so  ancient 

Bellair.  Must  mean  wh  it  I  say. 

Do  their  ancestors  teach  the  well-born  t  >  betray  ? 
Walpole.  Wed  her  friendless  and  penniless  1 
Bellair.  Ay. 

Walpole.  Strange  caprice ! 

Deign  to  ask,  then,  from  Walpole  the  hand  of  his  niece. 

Should  he  give  his  conseut,  thank  the  friend  you  abuse. 


ACT   III.  41 

Bellair  (embracing  Blount).  Best  and  noblest  of  men.  my  blind  fiirv 
excus\ 

Walpole.   H  rk  !  her  father's  lost  lands  may  yet  serve  for  her  dower. 
Bi:llair.     All  the  earth  his  no  lands  worth  the  bloom  of  this  flower. 
Lucy.  An!   too  soou  fades  the  flower. 

Bellair.  True,  I  alter  the  name. 

Be  my  perfect  pure  chrysolite — ever  the  same. 
Walpole.   Hold  !  I  know  not  a  chrysolite  from    a  carbuncle,  (Kith  in* 
sinwitmg  blandishment  of  voice  and  look) 

But  my  nephew-in-law  should  not  vute  out  his  uncle. 
Bellair.  Robert  Walpol  >,  at  last  you  have  bou!_hl  me,  I  fear. 
Walpole.  Every  man  his  his  price.     My  majority's  clear. 

If, ■  (crossing  quickly  to  Blount J 

Dear  Blount.,  did  your  goodness  not  rank  with  the  best, 

What  you  feel  ns  reproach,  you  would  treat  as  a  jest. 

Rai*e  your  head — and  with  me  keep  a  laugh  for  the  ass 

Who  has  never  <2<>ne  out  of  his  wits  for  a  lass ; 

Live  again  for  your  country — reflect  on  my  bill. 
Blount  (ivith  emotion,  grasping  Walpole's  hand).  You  are  generous  ;  I 

thank  you.     Vote  with  you  1 — I  will ! 
Veaskt.      How  dispersed  are  the  clouds  seeming  lately  so  sinister! 
Walpole.  Y.  s,  I  think  that  the  glass  stands  at  Fair — for  the  Minister. 
Yeasey.      Ah  !  what  more  couM  you  do  for  the  People  and  Throue  1 
Walpole.  Now  I'm  safe  in  my  office,  I'd  leave  well  alone. 

Servants  at  Back. 

Mrs.  Vizard. 

Bellair.  Luct.  Blount.  Veasey. 

AValpole. 

CURTAIN. 


NOT  SO  BAD  AS  WE  SEEM. 

COPTBIGHT,  1875,  BY  EODKBI   M.  DE  WlTT. 


NOT.    SO    B\D    AS    Wi:    3E1  M. 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

Burton's  Theatre,  Xew,     Thta  /i/iir- 

l'ork,  Aug.  29,  1851.  ket,  London,  Feb. 

1-,  '• 

The  Duke  of  Middlesex  ( i  peer  attach- 
ed to  the  son  of  James  II.,  com- 
monly called  the  First  Pretender.. Mr.  Moorhousb.         Mr.  Stcart. 

The  Eirl  of  Loftus  (also  a  peer  attached 
to  the  son  of  Junes  II 

Lord  Wilmot  (a  young  man  at  the 
head  of  the  Mode  more  than  a  cen- 
tury ago,  son  to  Lord  Loftu*) Mr.  Dyott.  Mr.  LZXQH Mi'iirat. 

Mr.  Shadowly  Softhead  (a  young  gel  - 
tleman  from  the  city  friend  and 
double  to  Lord  Wilmot) Mr.  Bcuto*.  Mr.  Kkbley. 

Hardman  (a  rising  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  adherent  of  Sir  Robert 
Walpole) Mr.  Blanh.  Mr.  Barky  Sullivan. 

Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside  (a  gentleman  of 

good  family  and  estate) Mr.   B.  Wf.b-tku 

Mr.  Goodenougli  Easy  (in  business, 
highly  respectable,  and  a  friend  of 
Sir  Geoffrey) Mr.  J.  IJi-nn.  Mr.  Bcckstom. 

Colonel  Flint  (a  Fire-eater) 

Mr.  Jacob  Tonson  (a  Bookseller) 

Smart  (Valet  to  Lord  Wilmot) 

Hodge  (Servant  to  Sir  Geoffrey  Thorn- 
side)  

Paddy  O'Sullivan  (Mr.  Fallen's  Land- 
lord)  

Mr.  David  Fallen  (Grubb  Street  Au- 
thor and  Phamphleteer) Mr.  Parday.  Mr.  Howe. 

First  Watchman 

Lucy  (Daughter  to  Sir  Geoffrey  Thorn- 

8'de) Miss  Weston.  Hiss  Ross  Bennett. 

Barbara  (Daughter  to  Mr.  Easy) Miss  M.  Barton.  Miss  Amelia  Vimno. 

Lady  Ellinor  (the  Lady  of  Deadman's 

Lane) 

Coffee  House  Loungers,  Drawers,  Newsmen,  Watchmen,  etc. 

PERIOD— 1720.— REIGN  OF  GEORGE  I. 


SCENE— LONDON. 


TIME  IN  REPRESENTATION— THREE  HOURS  AND  A  QUARTER. 


The  events  of  the  Play  are  supposed  to  take  place  between  the  morning  of  one 
day  and  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  following. 


SCEXERY. 


ACT  I.,  Scene  /.—Lord  Wilmot's  apartment  in  St.  James's.  A  handsomely  fur- 
nished apartment  richly  carpeted,  closed  in,  set  scene.  In  4th  grooves  the  flats  rep- 
resent one  side  with  folding  doors,  c.    Gilded  panels  and  large  paintings.    Doors 


NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM. 


E.  3  E.  and  l.  3  e.  in  a  slanting  direction  ;  near  each  of  them  two  rich  gilt  tablea 
upon  which  are  books  and  papers  ;  on  either  side  of  the  tables  similar  kind  of  chairs 
and  also  between  the  doors ;  the  panels  on  either  side  are  hung  with  pictures. 
Handbell  on  table,  r.  2  e.  Everything  betokens  a  rich  and  elegantly  furnished 
apartment. 

ACT  II.,  Scene  I.—  Library  in  the  house  of  Sir  Geoffrey  TnoRssiDE.  Flats  in  4th 
grooves  represent  one  side  of  the  apartment  with  dark  and  heavy  looking  oak  pan- 
els, partly  gilded  ;  the  sides  represent  the  same.  At  the  back,  c,  a  large  window 
opening  nearly  to  the  ground.  Doors  i..  3  e.  and  r.  3  e.  ;  the  scene  beyond  the  win- 
dow represents  a  garden  wall,  with  vines,  etc.,  trained  up  it.  Antique  tables,  with 
books  and  papers,  r.  2  e.  and  l.  2  e.  ;  antique  high-backed  chairs  with  velvet  seats 
on  either  side  of  the  tables. 

ACT  HI.,  Scene  1  —Will's  Coffee  House. 


|  Door. 


Door. 


i  :  O  ;  : 

Box  and  Table. 


o 

Box  and  Table. 


Door. 


O  *  Chair. 

Table. 


Box  and  Table. 
r.'2e. — 


Chair.  *  O     :   : 

Table.  •'•• 

Box  and  Table. 


R.  1  E.- 


The  fiats  set  in  the  back  grooves  represent  dark  oak  panelling,  decorated  with 
paintings.  In  the  centre  a  doorway,  panelling  of  passage  beyond  ;  on  either  side 
of  the  doorway  two  partitions  four  or  five  feet  high,  forming  a  sort  of  open  box, 
and  between  them  a  table,  with  a  seat  running  round  three  sides  of  the  box,  leav- 
ing one  side  open  to  the  audience.  Doors  r.  v.  e.  and  I..  U.  E.  Nearer  the  audience 
R.  and  l.,  a  similar  sort  of  box,  with  the  seat  running  round  two  sides  only,  the 
sides  next  the  centre  of  the  stage  and  facing  the  audience  being  open.  Over  the. 
door  in  the  centre  are  the  gilded  arms  of  England,  and  on  the  panels  of  the  room 
are  various  placards— "Army  Increase,"  "More  Treason,"  "Defeat  of  the  Minis- 
try," "More  Jacobite  Plots,"  "One  Thousand  Guineas  Reward,"  etc.  Writing 
materials  in  the  open  box,  r.  Two  small  round  tables  and  chairs  near  the  open 
boxes,  B.  and  L.,  with  newspapers,  etc. 

Scene  //.—Library  in  Sir  Geoffrey's  house.  Flats  as  in  Act  2,  Scene  1,  but  set 
in  2d  grooves.     Chair  pushed  on  k.  2  E. 

Scene  HI. — An  old  fashioned  street  scene  set  in  4th  grooves.  The  corner  of  a 
gloomy-looking  house,  r.  3  e.,  apparently  the  beginning  of  an  alley,  upon  the  corner 
of  it  is  inscribed  "  Deadman's  Lane."  Belonging  to  it  in  a  slanting  direction  is  a 
heavy-looking  doorway,  over  which  is  fixed  a  massive  crown  and  portcullis. 

ACT IV.,  Scene  /.—Library  in  Sir  Geoffrey's  house,  as  in  Act  3,  Scene  2. 

Scene  11.— David  Fallen's  garret.  The  flats  set  in  the  back  grooves  represent  the 
side  of  a  dilapidated  garret :  a  low  small  casement  with  broken  and  patched  panes, 
O.  A  cupboard,  r.  c.  A  low  bedstead  with  blanket  and  scanty  bedding,  l.  u.  e. 
Two  or  three  old  pictures  on  the  wall.  Door  b.  3  e.  Common  table  and  two  chairs 
near  the  window  ;  writing  materials. 


4  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WK    SEEM. 

Scene  III.— The  Mall.  The  fiats  in  the  3d  grooves  represent  rows  of  trees  ana 
gravelled  walk ;  the  wings  to  correspond. 

ACT  V.,  Scene  /.—Old  Mill  near  the  Thames.  The  flats  in  the  2d  grooves  repre- 
sent river  banks,  with  an  old  mill  and  outbuildings. 

<Scene  11.—  Apartment  in  the  house  in  Deadman's  Lane.  The  flats  set  full  back 
represent  a  very  old  fashioned  and  sombre-looking  room,  with  heavy  tapestry  on 
the  wall,  very  much  faded.  Old  style  of  fire-place,  with  high  heavy  carved  mantel- 
piece in  the  centre,  over  which  is  a  dingy  crown  and  portcullis.  The  tapestry,  R.t 
is  partially  drawn  back,  and  shows  a  door  ;  a  window,  l;  a  roughly  carved  antique 
table,  c,  with  writing  materials  upon  it ;  three  chairs  near  it  of  a  similar  style, 
and  chairs  r.  and  l. 

Note.— If  the  Epilogue  of  "  David  Fallen  is  Dead  "  is  given,  the  scene  is  set  the 
same  as  Scene  1  in  Act  1,  with  the  addition  of  wine,  fruit,  etc. 


COSTUMES. 

Compiled  from  the  works  of  Planche,  Fairholt,  and  Martin. 

Lord  Wilmot.— Square-cut  coat  and  long-flapped  waistcoat,  of  scarlet  cloth  or  vel- 
vet, 'with  pockets  in  them.  Broad  lappels  to  the  pockets  of  the  coat  just  below 
the  hips,  trimmed  with  gold  lace,  buttons,  and  embroidered  button  holes ;  white 
neckcloth,  lace,  with  long  ends.  Three-cornered  hat  with  the  sides  turned  up. 
Silk  hose  drawn  up  over  the  knee  so  high  that  they  join  the  breeches  under  the 
long  waistcoat  flaps— the  breeches  may  therefore  be  of  the  same  or  any  other 
color,  and  of  silk  or  velvet.  Hifrh-heeled  shoes  and  buckles.  Large  hanging 
cuffs  to  the  coat,  with  lace  ruffles.  Very  long  curled  wig.  Court  sword.  2d 
Dress  :  Plain  black  coat,  waistcoat,  and  trunks  of  a  similar  style,  without  orna- 
ment ;  shoes  and  buckles  ;  short  wig  :  linen  neckcloth,  and  plain  three-cornered 
hat.    This  is  only  used  when  disguised  as  Curll. 

Hardman.— A  similar  dress,  of  blue  velvet  or  cloth,  but  more  quietly  ornamented  ; 
hat,  wig,  Bhoes,  buckles,  and  sword. 

Shadowly  Softhead.— Square-cut  coat,  fancifully  embroidered,  blue  satin  waist- 
coat, flowered  with  silk  designs;  lace  neckcloth  and  ruffles;  shoes,  buckles, 
three-cornered  hat  and  small  feather,  blue  hose  and  short  breeches,  as  above 
mentioned  ;  gold-headed  cane  ;  full  wig. 

r  Precisely  similar  style  of  dress  and  equipments — one  being 

Duke  op  Middlesex,  ^     of  &  cinnamon  or  pale  brown  color(  and  the  other  plum 

LordLotfus.  £     colored# 

Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside.— Square  cut  coat  of  a  claret  color  and  waistcoat  to 

match,  without  ornaments  ;  neckcloth,  ruffles,  black  silk  hose,  breeches,  plain 
""".  three-cornered  hat,  shoes,  buckles,  short  wig,  and  sword. 
Mr.  Goodenough  Easy.— Plain  black  suit  of  a  similar  shape  and  make  ;  black  silk 

hose,  shoes,  buckles,  hat,  short  wig,  plain  neckcloth  ;  neither  ruffles  nor  sword. 
Jacob  Tonson.— Plain  black  suit  of  similar  kind. 
Colonel  Flint.— Similar  style  of  dress,  varied  in  the  colors. 
David  Fallen. — 1st  Dress :    Well  worn  black  coat  and  waistcoat ;  breeches  and 

hose  ;  hat,  shoes,  buckles,  linen  neckcloth,  and  long  wig.    2d  Dress  :    The  coat 

thrown  aside,  and  waistcoat,  shoes,  hose,  and  everything  in  dishabille. 
Smart.— Silk  stockings,  shoes,  and  buckles  ;  black  breeches  ;  coat  of  claret-colored 

cloth,  -with  plated  buttons ;  plain  neckcloth ;  short  wig. 
Hodge. — Similar  dress  of  a  cherry  color,  and  a  highly  figured  waistcoat  underneath  ; 

knee  breeches  ;  cotton  hose  ;  shoes  and  buckles;  short  wig. 
Paddy  O'Sullivan. — Plain  short  coat  of  rough  material ;  plain  neckcloth  ;  knee 

breeches,  worsted  hose,  shoes,  buckles,  and  short  wig. 
Watchmen. — Long  coats  of  dark  frieze,  buttoned  up  ;  worsted  hose,  breeches,  shoes, 

buckles ;  rather  short  wigs  ;  three-cornered  hats. 


NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM.  0 

Lucy. — Full  skirt  and  bodice  of  silk  (any  color),  with  wide  open  sleeves  to  the  elbow 
trimmed  with  lace,  and  lace  undersleeves  ;  a  light  lace  cap  over  the  head  fas- 
tened with  ribbons;  the  hair  dressed  high  and  thrown  back.  High-heeled  shoe-* 
and  buckles  ;  fan  ;  a  light  muslin  handkerchief  thrown  over  the  shoulders  and 
the  ends  thrust  into  the  bosom  ;  round  low-crowned  hat 

Barbara. — A  similar  kind  of  dress,  but  varied  in  the  colors. 

Lady  Elltnor,  —  A  similar  kind  of  dress,  but  concealed  during  the  early  scenes  of 
the  play  by  the  use  of  a  dark  mantle,  hood,  and  mask. 

Genkral  Dresses.—  The  loungers  about  Will's  Coffee  Hbuse  are  dressed  in  similar 
style,  but  of  varied  quality.  The  drawers  with  long  white  aprons,  black  stock- 
ings and  breeches  ;  sleeveless  waistcoats  and  long  coats ;  short  wigs ;  shoes, 
buckles,  and  plain  neckcloths. 


PROPERTIES. 

A  CT  I.,  Scene  1. — Four  gilt  tables  ;  eight  or  ten  gilt  chairs ;  paintings  ;  books  ;  pa- 
pers ;  handbell ;  card  with  address  on  it ;  gold-headed  cane. 

ACT  II.,  Scene  1  — Two  heavy  antique  tables,  with  books  and  papers;  four  antique 
high-backed  chairs  with  velvet  seats  ;  bunch  of  flowers  ;  sword  for  Sir  Geof- 
frey ;  gold  snuff-box  for  Wilmot. 

ACT  III.,  Scene  1. — Two  round  mahogany  tables  with  newspapers  ;  newspapers  for 
newsman  ;  decanters  and  wine  glasses ;  trays,  etc. :  letter ;  card  with  address. 
Scene  2. — Antique  ehairs.  Scene  3  — Pipe  for  Easy  ;  rattles,  staves,  and  lanterns 
for  Watchmrn. 

ACT IV.,  Scene  2. — Old  pictures  on  wall:  common  table  and  two  chairs;  writing 
materials;  handsomely  ornamented  portfolio  with  papers  and  letter;  common 
bedstead  with  blanket  and  a  few  old  bed  clothes  ;  canvas  bag  with  coin.  Scene  3. 
—Phial  for  Softhead. 

ACT  V.,  Scene   1.— Folded  paper;   address  card;    pocket  tablets  for  Hardman. 

Scene  2. — Roughly  carved  table  and  five  chairs  ;  written  paper  for  Hardsian  ; 

writing  materials  ;  letter  ;  portfolio  as  before,  papers  and  letter  •  spectacles  for 

the  Doke. 

Note. — If  the  Epilogue  is  given,  the  properties  are  the  same  as  in  Scene  1,  Act  1, 

with  the  addition  of  wine,  decanters,  glasses,  silver  fruit  dishes,  fruit,  etc. 


STORY  OF  TEE  PLAT. 

The  period  chosen  for  the  action  of  the  story  is  during  the  reign  of  the  first  George, 
king  of  England,  when  efforts  were  still  being  made  to  place  upon  the  throne  the 
Jacobite  son  of  James  the  Second,  commonly  called  the  First  Pretender.  The  con- 
stant reverses  which  had  hitherto  attended  his  efforts  had  slightly  damped  the  ardor 
and  decreased  the  number  of  his  adherents  ;  nevertheless,  many  of  the  embers  of 
the  fire  still  existed,  and  his  cause  found  favor  and  support  among  several  of  the 
leading  nobility  of  the  period,  including  therein  two,  represented  in  the  play  as  the 
Duke  of  Middlesex  and  Lord  Loftus,  names  which,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say,  are 
created  for  the  occasion.  Their  connection  with  the  rebel  cause  is  made  use  of  to 
work  out  the  story  and  bring  about  a  successful  and  happy  conclusion. 

The  Duke  of  Middlesex  is  represented  as  being  the  head  of  a  noble  house  whose 
fame  is  so  ancient  and  so  great  as  to  form  a  part  of  the  history  of  the  country— the 
very  fountain  of  truth  and  honor.  But,  as  then  was  and  even  now  is  the  case  with 
many  other  great  families,  there  was  a  dark  spot  on  the  escutcheon — there  was  or.o 
member  who  satiated  himself  with  dissipation,  whose  vanity  and  pride  were  of  the 
most  extensive  kind,  and  who,  casting  aside  the  proverbial  truth  and  honor  of  his 


G  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM. 

race,  whose  word  was  always  considered  sacred,  did  not  hesitate  to  boast  openly  of 
the  female  conquests  ho  made,  and,  if  he  had  been  unsuccessful,  felt  no  compunc- 
tion in  bringing  a  lie  to  his  assistance,  and  asserting,  utterly  regardless  of  the  con- 
sequences, that  he  had  been  honored  with  the  lady's  favors.  Such  was  the  character 
of  the  Duke's  brother,  Lord  Henry  de  Mowbray. 

Amongst  the  numerous  ladies  with  whom  this  dangerous  nobleman  came  in  con. 
tact  few  surpassed  in  personal  or  mental  charms  and  graces  Lady  Ellinor,  the  young" 
and  idolized  wife  of  a  wealthy  gentleman,  Sir  Geoffrey  Morland,  one  of  England's 
sterling  men,  bearing  an  ancient  and  .spotless  name,  and  master  of  large  domains. 
For  a  long  time  did  the  unscrupulous  seducer  exercise  his  most  skillful  arts  to  trap 
his  new  victim,  but  in  vain  ;  purity  and  firmness  formed  an  invulnerable  shield. 
Finding  himself  continuously  baffiVd,  and  his  vanity  and  pride  of  conquest  thus 
mortified,  Lord  Henry  resorted  to  lying  to  uphold  his  prestige  as  a  successful  liber- 
tine, and  by  wily  artifices  and  ready  tools  he  soon  had  it  gradually  noised  abroad 
that  the  Lady  Morland  had  not  been  quite  so  circumspect  and  guirrded  in  her  con- 
duct as  to  preserve  her  husband's  honor  untarnished.  And  in  this  diabolical  scheme 
he  was  much  aided  by  a  letter  which  she  had  incautiously  written  to  him,  and  the 
language  of  which  he  artfully  perverted  to  suit  his  purposes.  The  sparks  thus 
thrown  about  soon  produced  a  flame.  An  inquiry  was  instituted  by  the  distracted 
husband  to  trace  out  the  origin  of  the  slander,  and  relying  unsuspectingly  upon  the 
presumed  sacred  truthfulness  of  the  word  of  a  Mowbray,  he  banished  from  his 
house  the  idolized  wife  of  his  bosom  shortly  after  she  had  given  birth  to  a  daughter. 
He  then  sought  the  supposed  seducer,  forced  him  to  a  duel,  and  wounded  him  so 
severely  that,  thinking  he  had  killed  him,  he  fled  from  men's  tongues  and  the  story 
and  scene  of  his  dishonor  to  a  distant  land,  which  he  did  not  quit  until  m  my  years 
afterwards,  when,  broken  down  in  mind  and  body,  he  returned  to  his  native  land, 
changing  for  another  the  name  which  De  Mowbray  had  blighted.  His  only  com- 
fort was  his  daughter,  but  even  with  her  there  was  a  dark  side  in  his  thoughts,  for 
doubts  would  sometimes  cross  his  mind  as  to  her  true  parentage. 

Previous  to  the  duel  Lady  Morland  sought  refuge  in  the  house  of  her  father  ;  but 
sorrows  come  not  singly.  The  very  day  she  reached  there  he  was  compelled  to  fly 
the  country  to  save  his  life,  having  been  concerned  in  a  Jacobite  plot  which  had 
just  been  discovered.  Deprived  of  all  other  ties,  husband,  home,  and  child,  she 
accompanied  her  father  into  exile — proving  herself  his  stay,  his  hope,  his  all.  His 
lands  were  confiscated;  but  although  so  highly  born  and  so  tenderly  reared,  she 
worked  nobly  for  his  support  until  his  troubles  and  wants  were  silenced  in  the 
grave.  She  then  entered  a  convent,  and  prepared  to  take  the  noviciate,  when  she 
learned  most  unexpectedly  that  inquiries  had  been  instituted  about  her  in  Paris 
and  elsewhere  by  a  person  who  stated  that  Lord  de  Mowbray  had  died  recently,  and 
upon  his  death  had  retracted  to  the  fullest  extent  possible  the  foul  slander  of  which 
he  was  the  instigator,  and  that  he  had  left  behiud  him  written  memoirs,  papers,  and 
letters  acquitting  her  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  The  documents  were  stated 
also  to  explain  clearly  the  circumstances  under  which  he  received  the  letter  from 
Lady  Morland,  and  how  he  made  use  of  it,  so  that  her  entire  innocence  could  be 
fully  established.  The  image  of  her  darling  child,  from  whom  she  had  been  sepa- 
rated so  many  years — the  hope  of  once  agaiu  embracing  the  husband  of  her  youth, 
urged  her  to  active  and  energetic  exertions,  and  returning  to  England,  she  obtained 
information  which  enabled  her  to  trace  out  her  husband's  dwelling  and  assumed 
name.  A  few  days  before  the  opening  of  the  play  she  had  taken  up  her  residence 
in  an  old,  gloomy,  and  hitherto  deserted  house  immediately  adjacent  to  her  hus- 
band's mansion,  and  was  at  once  known  as  the  mysterious  masked  lady  of  Dead- 
man's  Lane ;  he  as  Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside,  and  their  child  as  Lucy  Thornside,  now 
passing  from  girlhood  into  womanhood.  Here  in  disguise  and  masked  would  the 
mother  wander  round  the  premises,  stealing  cautiously,  like  a  thief,  to  the  window 
to  obtain  one  glance  of  all  that  remained  in  the  world  to  love  and  live  for,  waiting 
patiently,  full  of  hope  and  faith,  for  time  to  place  within  her  power  the  proofs  of 
her  innocence.  So  far  then  as  these  parties  are  concerned  this  is  the  position  of 
affairs  at  the  opening  of  the  plv . 


NOT    SO    BAD    AS    AVE    SKEM.  ' 

She  has  frequently  observed  frbm  the  window  of  her  lonely  house  overlooking  Sir 
Geoffrey's  garden  a  gay  young  spark  of  the  period,  Lord  Wi  mot,  walking  there 
with  Lucy,  and  she  contrives  to  obtain  an  interview  with  him,  when  she  learns  that 
Lucy  very  often  mounrs  with  tear?  in  her  eyes  the  want  of  a  mothers  love  believ- 
ing that  she  had  died  in  her  infancy.  Lady  Morlaud  entreats  him  at  the  next  meet- 
ing to  say  that  he  had  seen  a  friend  of  this  mother  who  had  something  to  impart 
which  might  probably  be  to  the  happiness  of  both.  This  he  consents  to  do,  and  a 
visitor  approaching,  she  gives  him  her  address  and  appoints  a  meeting  tor  the  even- 

1UNow  Lord  Wilmot  was  one  of  the  youthful  leaders  of  the  fashionable  world,  for 
which  position  a  handsome  person,  a  refined  intellect,  and  polished  manners  ren- 
dered him  well  qualified.  As  is  frequently  the  case,  every  young  man  in  the  posses- 
sion of  wealth,  but  very  little  else,  eagerly  sought  his  society  and  struggled  desper- 
ately to  win  the  honor  of  his  acquaintance,  making  him  a  sort  of  idolatrous  model, 
proud  beyond  description  of  his  patronage  and  playful  familiarities  and  endeavor- 
ing, though  with  very  little  success,  to  imitate  him  in  every  possible  way.  Such  a 
one  is  Mr.  Shadowly  Softhead,  the  son  of  an  opulent  clothier  possessing  great  weight 
and  influence  among  the  city  companies,  but  not  much  known  beyond  Whatever 
Wilmot  did,  said,  or  thought,  Softhead  would  try  to  do,  say, and  think  the  same,  in 
fact  he  was  Wilmot's  double,  though  not  one  of  the  most  approved  description. 
Another  friend  of  W.lmofs,  but  of  a  very  different  sort,  is  Mr.  Hardman.  Un- 
known to  himself  he  is  the  son  of  the  foster  brother  of  Sir  Geoffrey,  who  promised 
his  father,  in  compliance  with  his  dying  wish,  that  the  boy  should  never  know  the 
favors  he  intended  to  bestow  upon  him,  so  that  he  should  not  feel  the  yoke  ot  de- 
pendence ;  and  <ir  Geoffrey  kept  his  word.  He  managed  matters  so  skillfully  and 
secretly  that  the  youth  received  a  good  education,  wrote  works  which  brought  his 
name  into  hi^rh  notice  and  favor  (Sir  Geoffrey  paying  the  publisher  to  produce 
them),  obtained  an  annuity  for  some  trifling  service,  and  a  seat  m  Parliament  with- 
out a  shilling  of  expense,  never  for  one  moment  doubting  that  all  th.s  he  had  him- 
self accomplished  by  energy,  perseverance,  talent,  and  application  instead  ot  owing 
it  to  the  watchful  care  and  long  purse  of  Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside,  otherwise  Morland 
At  the  opening  of  the  plav  Hardman  is  in  the  proud  position  of  a  rising  member  ot 
the  English  Parliament  and  a  strong  adherent  of  the  Prime  Minister,  Sir  Robert 

At  an  interview  which  takes  place  between  Wilmot  and  the  Duke  the  former 
alludes  to  a  report  which  is  going  through  fashionable  circles  that  Lord  Mowbray 
has  left  behind  him  certain  confessions  or  memoirs  which,  from  the  well  known  gay 
and  dissolute  life  he  pursued,  are  likely  to  prove  highly  rich  and  interesting  m 
their  details.  This  is  particularly  unpleasant  news  for  the  Duke,  who  views  with 
horror  the  odium  and  ridicule  that  are  likely  to  be  cast  upon  the  family  by  the  dis- 
covery and  publication  of  these  papers  ;  and  if  it  be  possible  by  any  means  whatever 
he  entreats  Wilmot  to  obtain  possession  of  them  and  not  let  them  all  into  the 
hands  of  some  greedy  publisher.  Wilmot  promises  to  do  all  he  possibly  can  as  he 
considers  it  the  duty  of  all  noble  gentlemen  to  suppress  scandal  so  injurious  to  their 
clas»  Pleased  with  his  ready  acquiescence,  the  Duke  reveals  to  him  his  connection 
with  the  Jacobite  cause,  urging  him  to  join,  observing  in  a  magniloquent  wa>s  If 
we  succeed,  you  restore  the  son  ot  a  Stuart  ;  if  we  fail,  you  will  go  to  the  scaffold  by 
the  side  of  John,  Duke  of  Middlesex  !" 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  however,  Wilmot  cannot  see  the  particular  advantage  01 
honor  in  thus  running  the  risk  of  putting  an  end  to  his  you.hful  and  at  present 
pleasurable  career;  consequently  1  e  very  respectfully  declines  the  offei  but  he 
learns  enough  to  lead  him  to  suspect  that  his  father,  Lord  Lottus,  ,s  mixed  up  in 

Man  has  his  Price." 


0  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM. 

on  the  inquiry,  and  to  apply  to  the  poor  author,  D#vid  Fallen,  who,  it  is  well  known, 
is  more  or  less  concerned  in  all  the  schemes  of  the  Pretender's  party.  Hardman  is 
in  love  with  Lucy,  and  half  suspects  that  Wilmot  is  also,  and  so  before  he  departs 
on  the  mission  he  throws  out  a  hint—"  One  is  always  safe  from  a  rival,  both  in  love 
and  ambition,  if  one  will  watch  to  detect  and  then  scheme  to  destroy."  Wilmot  is 
really  in  love  with  Lucy,  and  determines  to  put  Sir  Geoffrey  on  a  wrong  scent  with 
regard  to  his  passion,  and  therefore  he  induces  Shadowly  Softhead,  though  not  with- 
out some  difficulty,  to  make  pretended  love  to  her,  whilst  he  will  do  the  same  to- 
wards Barbara  Easy,  of  whom  Softhead  is  deeply  enamored,  and  then  when  oppor- 
tunity occurs  matters  can  be  reversed ;  as  Wilmot  wittily  observes,  they  can 
"  change  partners,  hands  across,  down  the  middle,  and  up  again." 

Sir  Geoffrey  in  his  retirement  has  grown  suspicious,  petu  ant,  and  irritable,  and 
this  disposition  is  not  improved  by  the  rustic  bluntness  of  his  eccentric  attendant, 
Hodge,  whom  he  has  brought  to  London  from  his  country  house.  For  some  few 
days  he  has  been  much  annoyed  by  nosegays  being  thrown  in  at  the  window,  in 
which  he  is  convinced  there  is  some  attempt  upon  his  life ;  then  again,  when  he 
walks  in  the  garden,  he  feels  sure  that  some  one,  or  something,  is  watching  from 
the  window  of  the  lone  house  in  Deadman's  Lane.  Another  great  source  of  annoy- 
ance is  the  frequent  calling  of  Wilmot,  who,  as  he  says,  pretending  to  have  saved 
Lucy  from  footpads,  persists  in  repeating  the  calls  daily,  only  an  excuse,  he  is  con- 
fident, for  making  love  to  her,  which  angers  him  much,  as  he  has  not  the  slightest 
liking  or  respect  for  a  lord  ;  all  of  which  he  reveals  to  Goodenough  Easy. 

The  arrival  of  the  young  ladies,  accompanied  by  Wilmot  and  Softhead,  affords  an 
opportunity  for  some  amusing  by-play,  by  means  of  which  Wi'mot  skillfully  plays 
upon  Sir  Geoffrey  and  then  upon  Easy,  so  that  he  induces  the  latter  to  take  the 
former  into  an  adjoining  room  to  talk  over  his  views  with  regard  to  Lucy,  thus  leav- 
ing Softhead  and  Barbara  to  a  battle  of  love,  and  giving  Wilmot  an  opportunity  to 
make  Lucy  acquainted  with  the  visit  from  a  friend  of  her  mother's. 

The  arrival  of  Hardman  breaks  up  the  meeting,  and  although  partners  are 
changed  as  arranged,  Hardman  is  very  suspicious,  but  having  ascertained  from 
David  Fallen  that  Wilmot's  father  really  is  mixed  up  in  treasonous  plots,  he  deter- 
mines to  use  that  knowledge  as  a  hold  upon  the  son,  should  occasion  need.  Barbara 
confides  to  Wilnot  her  love  for  Softhead  and  her  father's  dislike  to  him  for  having 
quitted  the  sober  business  city  life  in  which  he  was  reared,  to  ape  and  imitate  the 
man  of  fashion  and  the  ways  of  those  far  above  him  in  rank  and  position,  for  which 
reason  their  union  has  been  forbidden.  But  Wilnot  Cheers  her  up  and  promises  to 
work  a  great  change  in  the  steady  young  city  merchant,  and  although  Barbara  de- 
clares that  her  father  is  one  of  the  soberest  men  living,  and  exceedingly  severe 
against  a  cheerful  glass,  Wilnot  determines  to  lead  him  into  a  tipsy  bout  and  turn 
the  incident  to  advantage. 

At  a  meeting  the  same  evening,  at  Will's  Offee  House,  a  noted  resort  for  all  the 
giy  young  lords,  politicians,  authors,  and  noted  men  of  the  day,  Easy  is  induced  to 
be  a  visitor.  Hardman  is  there  also,  to  have  have  a  further  interview  with  David 
Fallen  ;  so  also  are  Lord  Loftus  and  the  Duke,  who  choose  the  place  for  meeting  as 
from  its  publicity  they  are  less  likely  to  excite  suspicion  than  in  using  a  more  pri. 
vate  one.  , 

Loftus  expects  a  messenger  from  the  Pretender,  and  leaves  it  to  Fallen  to  name 
the  meeting  place  and  time,  which  he  fixes  for  the  ensuing  day  at  an  old  secluded 
mill  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Thames.  As  soon  as  they  are  gone,  he  tells  Hard- 
man  what  has  taken  place,  and  urges  him  to  save  the  infatuated  noblemen  from 
danger  and  not  to  destroy  them,  observing,  that  though  he  is  resigned  to  the  name 
of  starving  poet  and  hireling,  he  is  not,  and  cannot  be,  to  that  of  butcher.  In  warm 
language  he  tells  how  he  commenced  life  in  devotion  to  two  causes — t.he  throne  of 
the  Stuarts  and  the  glory  of  Letters.  Politicians  of  both  sides  served  him  alike  ;  no 
matter  which  was  in  power,  he  starved;  and  he  is  now  in  that  position  ;  he  is  paid 
for  information  and  scurrilous  pamphlets,  from  which  source  he  ekes  out  a  scanty 
subsistence. 


NOT  SO  BAD  as  we  seem.  9 

Hardman  at  this  moment  is  very  much  disposed  to  throw  up  his  post,  for,  believ- 
ing he  has  a  claim  upon  the  prime  minister  lor  past  services,  he  has  applied  to  him 
for  a  vacant  official  appointment,  only,  however,  to  meet  with  a  refusal  from  Wal- 
pole,  which  so  angers  him  that  he  is  almost  inclined  to  forsake  his  allegiance  ;  but 
a  little  reflection  bids  him  wait. 

Wilmot  now  appears  upon  the  scene  to  put  his  scheme  into  operation.  Accom- 
panied by  his  idolizing  double,  Softhead,  he  invites  the  leading  members  of  the  com- 
pany to  a  grand  dinner,  and  artfully  contrives  that  there  shall  be  just  one  wanting 
to  complete  the  party.  Of  course  his  eye  drops  upon  Easy,  and  in  spite  of  his  pro- 
testations that  he  is  unused  and  objects  to  such  scenes,  he  is  compelled  to  agree  to 
make  up  the  number,  which  brings  forth  another  side  to  his  character ;  with  the 
excitement  of  the  scene,  he  forgets  his  previous  steady  going  merchant  principles 
and  speaks  boastingly  to  acquaintances  around  him  of  the  honor,  ability,  and  pleas- 
antry of  his  friend,  Lord  Wilmot. 

Now  is  the  time  for  looking  after  the  memoirs,  so  Wilmot  broaches  the  subject  to 
Tonson  (a  celebrated  publisher  and  an  employer  of  distressed  and  suffering,  but  tal- 
ented, authors  at  starvation  prices),  and  from  him  he  finds  that  they  are  in  the  posses- 
sion of  David  Fallen,  who  refuses  to  part  with  them,  although  Tonson  has  offered  the 
magnificent  sum  of  two  hundred  guineas.  This  is  good  news  for  Wilmot,  who  obtains 
the  poet's  address  and  determines  to  visit  him  at  his  house,  alone. 

Tonson  also  speaks  of  the  subject  to  Hardman,  expatiating  warmly  upon  the  ex- 
treme attractiveness  of  the  papers  it  they  could  only  be  secured  for  publication  ;  a 
full  account  of  the  love  adventures  of  Lord  Mowbray  ;  such  a  confession  about  the 
beautiful  LadyMorland;  satires  upon  the  Duke  ;  Jacobite  family  secrets ;  ever  so 
much  scandal ;  would  sell  like  wildfire  ;  such  glorious  nuts  for  the  public  to  crack  ! 
But  to  all  this  Hardman  turns  a  deaf  ear. 

Now  Tonson's  great  fear  is  that  one  Curll,  a  most  unscrupulous  publisher,  author 
and  trafficker  in  literary  matter,  should  forestall  him  in  the  possession  of  these  me- 
moirs and  force  them  upon  the  market  in  spite  of  all  the  trouble  he  has  taken,  and 
he  therefore  mentions  the  subject  to  Wi'.mot,  begging  him  to  be  upon  his  guard  and 
not  let  the  secret  of  the  ownership  get  wind.  This  gives  a  new  idea  to  Wilmot ;  he 
once  dressed  like  and  imitated  this  Curll  so  well  that  the  great  poet  Pope  was  him- 
self deceived,  and  ordered  him  out  of  the  room,  so  he  determines  again  to  adopt  this 
disguise  to  assist  him  in  dealing  with  Fallen,  and  not  to  appear  in  his  proper  person. 
Observing  Hardman  somewhat  moody,  he  learns  from  him  the  minister's  refusal 
of  the  sought  for  place,  which  if  he  had  secured  would  have  given  him  courage  to 
ask  for  and  obtain  the  hand  of  the  lady  he  loves  ;  and  his  spirits  are  by  no  means 
cheered  up  when  Wilmot  avows  to  him  his  own  love  for  Lucy.  Hardman,  however, 
is  not  to  be  so  easily  baffled,  the  knowledge  of  the  treason  of  Lord  Loftus  and  the 
Duke  is  in  his  keeping,  for  which  he  can  demand  from  Wilmot  any  price  he  pleases, 
and  he  determines  that  such  price  shall  be  his  resignation  of  the  hand  of  Lucy. 
With  dissembling  friendship  he  bids  him  adieu  : — 
"To-day  I'm  your  envoy;  to-morrow  your  master." 

Now  Wilmot  is  half  jesting;  he  sees  that  every  man's  character  has  different  sides 
to  it,  and  he  thinks  it  too  cruel  a  joke  that  for  want  of  the  official  appointment 
Hardman  should  lose  the  chance  of  winning  the  woman.  Wilmot  has  a  very  scarce 
and  valuable  painting  by  the  celebrated  artist  Murillo ;  the  weak  side  of  Walpole's 
character  was  a  strong  infatuation  for  paintings.  The  game  is  quite  clear  ;  Wilmot 
Will  make  him  a  present  of  the  painting  in  exchange  for  the  appointment — in  fact, 
he  will  bribe  the  Prime  Minister— Walpole  shall  have  the  Murillo,  and  Hardman 
shall  have  the  place,  and  the  wife,  if  he  can  win  her. 

In  an  interview  which  takes  place  in  Sir  Geoffrey's  library,  Lucy  alludes  to  the 
visits  of  Wilmot  under  pretence  of  loving  Barbara,  and  affectionately  urges  him  to 
forbid  them,  confessing  that  they  make  her  too  happy,  and  yet  may  grieve  him. 
The  old  baronet  is  struck  with  this  token  of  affection  ;  she  must  be  his  child  ;  how 
to  console  her?  "By  speaking  of  my  mother,"  timidly  suggests  Lucy.  The  fath- 
er's brow  darkens  as  he  forbids  her  ever  to  mention  the  name  of  one  who  had  dis- 


10  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    AVE    SEEM. 

honored  him.  "It  is  false  !"  speaks  a  low  voice,  and  the  masked  female  disappears 
from  the  window  of  the  apartment  where  she  had  been  a  spectator  of  the  scene.  At 
this  moment  Hardman  arrives  with  the  news  that  Wilmot  is  not  in  love  with  Bar- 
bara, but  with  Lucy,  and  whilst  the  baronet  informs  him  that  he  already  knows  it, 
and  they  agree  that  the  nosegays  and  the  w.itcli  kept  on  the  house  are  evidently 
part  of  a  plan  to  entrap  her,  the  masked  female  glides  past  the  window.  With  a 
startled  cry  Hardman,  who  observes  the  movement,  leaps  out  in  pursuit;  carefully 
tracks  her  to  the  house  in  Deadman's  Lane,  and  determines  that  the  morrow  shall 
solve  the  mystery. 

Wilmot's  dinner  takes  place  as  arranged,  and  so  skillfully  does  he  carry  out  his 
plans  that  he  works  Easy  into  a  glorious  state  of  jovial  exhilaration,  in  which  he 
declares  his  undying  antipathy  for  lords,  and  binds  himself  irrevocably  to  accept 
Softhead  as  his  son-in-law ;  thus  Wilmot  achieves  (success  for  his  plot  number  one. 
Scenes  of  rough  play  in  the  streets  between  young  sparks  and  the  night  watchmen 
were  common  occurrences  at  the  period  of  the  play  ;  indeed,  it  was  not  considered 
the  proper  thing  to  wind  up  an  evening's  carousal  without  something  of  the  kind. 
As  a  matter  of  course  Wilmot  takes  care  that  his  party  shall  be  no  exception  to  the 
custom,  and  he  therefore  leads  his  friends  into  such  a  scene,  as  it  happens,  in  the 
vicinity  of  Deadman's  Lane.  Goodenough  Easy,  under  the  influence  of  his  fre- 
quent draughts,  fcrgets  his  civic  dignity,  and  bestriding  a  fallen  watchman,  affords 
much  amusement  by  fancying  himself  the  chairman  of  a  jovial  meeting  and  the 
watchman's  body  the  table.  The  arrival  of  the  other  members  of  the  watch  how- 
ever interrupt  his  delusion,  and  he  is  borne  away  to  the  watch-house,  still  shouting, 
however,  the  glorious  principles  of  the  constitution  and  the  pride  he  feels  at  the  ex- 
alted position  to  which  he  has  been  raised — the  shoulders  of  the  watchmen.  Wil- 
mot, having  taken  Softhead  aside,  now  points  out  to  him  the  lone  house,  and  so 
works  upon  his  fears  by  the  picture  he  draws  of  things  within,  that  when  the  masked 
lady  suddenly  appears,  he  darts  away  frightened  out  of  his  wits.  She  beckons,  and 
Wilmot  follows  her  into  the  house. 

Hardman  now  takes  an  opportunity  of  an  interview  with  Sir  Geoffrey  to  ask  for 
Lucy's  hand.  He  relates  in  glowing  terms  his  career  from  boyhood  ;  his  struggles 
for  fortune  and  fame ;  with  all  of  which  the  barouet  is  of  course  acquainted  ;  but 
when  he  tells  him  that  not  an  hour  previously  he  had  received  the  appointment 
which  had  been  refused,  the  baronet  is  sorely  puzzled  to  know  who  could  have  done 
that.  However,  charmed  by  his  frankness,  Sir  Geoffrey  gives  his  consent,  if  Lucy 
so  inclines,  and  then  tells  him  that  upon  examining  the  nosegays  thrown  in  at  the 
window  he  finds  they  are  made  up  in  the  very  form  in  which  he  used  to  make  up 
those  he  sent  to  his  wife  in  the  days  of  their  courtship.  He  tells  him  also  of  his 
supposed  dishonor,  and  reveals  his  true  name— Morland — and  that  of  the  presumed 
seducer.  Tonsou's  words  about  the  memoirs  flash  to  Hardman's  recollection,  and 
he  determines  to  seek  an  interview  with  David  Fallen. 

Wilmot  is  not  slow  on  the  same  track.  Disguising  himself  as  Mr.  Curl],  he  visits 
Fallen  in  his  wretched  garret,  when  the  forlorn  poet  is  about  to  pawn  the  last  blan- 
ket he  possesses  to  obtain  food  for  his  children.  He  offers  three  hundred  guineas 
for  the  memoirs,  but,  poor  as  he  is,  Fallen  refuses  ;  honor  and  poverty  are  still  left 
to  him.  He  relates  how  they  were  given  to  him  by  Lord  Mowbray  on  his  death-bed  ; 
that  they  contain  a  confession  as  to  the  lady  he  once  foully  injured,  which  would 
serve  to  clear  the  name  he  himself  had  aspersed,  and  that  they  had  been  received 
with  n  promise  to  seek  her  and  place  them  in  her  hands  to  enable  her  to  establish 
her  innocence.  She  was  of  a  Jacobite  family,  and  as  a  Jacobite  agent  Fallen  was 
supposed  to  have  the  best  chance  of  tracing  her  ;  he  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost, 
but  only  to  hear  that  she  had  died  in  France.  Having  thus  failed,  he  was  deter- 
mined that  no  money  should  induce  him  to  open  up  the  secrets  of  homes  to  public 
scoff  and  ridicule.  For  a  moment  baffled,  the  prize  seems  lost,  when  Wilmot  informs 
him  he  comes  from  Lord  Mowbray's  brother,  the  Duke  of  Middlesex.  This  only 
makes  matters  worse.  Fallen  relates  in  bitter  words  the  circumstances  under  which 
he  met  the  Duke  some  years  previously,  when  a  kind  word,  a  nod  of  recognition 


NOT   SO   BAD    as   we   seem.  11 

would  have  made  his  fortune.  He  had  inscribed  to  the  Duke  a  new  poem,  took  it  to 
his  house  and  waited  in  the  hall,  when  the  great  man  appeared  and  said  :  "  Oh,  you 
are  the  poet?  take  this,"  extending  his  alms  as  if  to  a  beggar.  "You  look  very 
thin,  sir;  stay  and  dine  with  my  people."  He  meant  his  servants  !  Fallen  points 
out  that  these  memoir<  mide  public,  would  make  the  Duke  the  jeer  of  his  own  lac- 
keys ;  but  he  will  be  no  tool  for  working  out  a  dead  brother's  revenge,  and  his  pride 
prevents  him  receiving  money. 

Charmed  by  the  nobility  of  Fallen's  conduct,  Wilmot  tells  him  who  he  is,  that  the 
Duke  is  his  father's  friend,  and  ought  to  possess  the  papers  as  a  family  secret,  and 
expresses  warmly  his  admiration  for  one  who,  in  the  midst  of  poverty,  cou:d  spurn 
a  bribe  to  his  honor,  but  who  might  now  humble  by  such  a  valuable  gift,  the  great 
and  haughty  noble,  who  had  insulted  him  by  alms.  Fallen  surrenders  the  memoirs, 
and  Wilmot  departs,  promising  him  for  life  a  yearly  sum  equal  to  that  which  he  h..d 
refused  as  a  bribe. 

Hardman  arrives  only  to  find  the  true  nature  of  the  documents  ;  that  Lady  Mor- 
land's  letter  was  with  them,  and  that  they  are  now  on  their  way  to  the  Duke.  Baf- 
fled in  this,  there  is  left  yet  the  meeting  with  the  Pretender's  agent.  If  he  can  only 
obtain  the  treasonous  dispatch,  he  will  force  the  memoirs  from  the  Duke  ;  the  masked 
female  must  be  Lady  Morland ;  establish  her  innocence  and  he  wins  Lucy. 

Wilmot  places  the  documents  in  the  hands  of  the  Duke,  and  then  sends  a  letter  to 
Lucy  to  meet  and  accompany  him  to  the  lone  house. 

Acting  upon  his  knowledge  of  the  meeting-place  and  the  password,  Hardman 
obtains  the  dispatch,  and  upon  the  Duke's  arrival  he  reveals  to  him  his  knowledge 
of  all  that  has  passed  respecting  his  brother  and  Lady  Morland,  and  that  he  knows 
of  the  papers  being  in  his  possession,  and  the  nature  of  them.  Hi  appeals  to  him, 
not  as  a  proud  peer  of  England,  but  as  a  man,  to  surrender  the  pipers,  and  by  so 
doing  restore  a  wife  to  the  husband  she  loves  and  forgives — to  the  girl  for  whom  her 
heart  yearns.  Pride  struggles  with  honor  and  justice  in  the  breast  of  the  haughty 
nobleman,  but  the  latter  triumphs,  and  he  takes  his  leave,  promising  to  meet  Hard- 
man  forthwith  and  hand  over  to  him  the  memoirs. 

In  a  state  of  the  greatest  alarm,  Softhead  arrives  with  the  information  that  he  has 
seen  Lucy  and  Wilmot  enter  the  lone  house  at  Deadman's  Lane.  Enraged  at  being 
thus  forestalled,  Hardman  gives  him  a  note  to  the  justice  to  send  and  post  officers 
at  the  door  to  await  his  orders,  and  also  a  message  to  Sir  Geoffrey  to  meet  him  there  ; 
aid  hastening  thither,  he  arrives  shortly  after  Wilmot  has  united  mother  and 
daughter.  In  vehement  language  he  reminds  him  of  his  love  for  Lu<*y  ;  he  tells  him 
that  instead  of  sounding  his  father,  he  has  detected  him  in  what  history  and  party 
feeling  call  zeal,  but  the  law  high  treason!  produping  the  dispatch  calling  for  arms 
and  money  to  dethrone  the  king,  signed  by  the  Duke  and  Lord  Loftus. 

Astounded  by  the  intelligence,  Wilmot  locks  the  door  and  attempts  to  secure  the 
paper,  but  Hardman  coolly  informs  him  that  officers  are  waiting  below,  and  the 
effort  is  futile.  He  then  pictures  his  love  for  Lucy,  and  that  he  had  schemed  to  save 
his  father,  not  to  injure  him;  had  the  dispatch  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  spy  the 
result  would  have  been  very  different,  and  he  now  only  asks  that  lie  may  himself 
place  it  in  the  hands  of  Lord  Loftus,  with  such  words  as  will  save  him  and  others 
from  similar  perilous  hazards  in  the  future.  Wilmot  departs  therefore  to  secure 
the  presence  of  his  father  and  the  Duke. 

As  soon  as  he  is  gone,  Hardman  seeks  an  interview  with  Lucy,  in  which  he  de- 
clares his  love,  telling  her  of  her  father's  wish,  and  that  he  will  soon  dispel  all  the 
clouds  which  have  darkened  his  life,  and  make  her  mother  the  pride  of  their  home. 
She  blesses  him  tor  the  promise,  but  w.irns  him  that  her  heart  may  not  go  with  her 
hand.  He  is  content ;  he  will  try  and  win  it.  Her  lather  is  coming  full  of  sus- 
picion ;  she  must  appear  as  his  betrothed  and  accepted ;  he  will  restore  her  mother's 
name  ;  secure  her  parents'  reunion  ;  her  hand  the  pledge— she  gives  it. 

Followed  by  Easy,  Softhead,  and  Barbara,  Sir  Geoffrey  bursts  into  the  room 
in  search  of  Wilmot,  by  whom  he  thinks  his  daughter  has  been  taken  off  and  find- 
ing Hardman  there,  believes  that  he  has  been  the  means  of  saving  her  from  disgrace. 


12  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    AVE    SEEM. 

Then  comes  to  light  the  whole  secret  of  Hardman's  past  career,  of  the  unknown 
hand  that  raised  him,  and,  more  astounding  than  all,  the  fact  that  he  owes  his  offi- 
cial appointment  to  Wilruot.  He  is  overwhelmed  at  such  generosity,  and  informs 
Kir  Geoffrey  why  Lucy  was  brought  there.  With  indignation  at  the  snare  laid  to 
bring  him  and  his  wife  together,  Sir  Geoffrey  is  about  to  depart,  when  the  Duke 
arrives  with  the  memoirs,  which  he  hands  over  to  H  mlm an.  The  inspection  of 
them  and  of  the  letter  convinces  Sir  Geoffrey  of  his  wife's  innocence,  and  with  a  burst 
of  joy  he  receives  her  in  his  arms.  But  Hardman's  task  is  not  yet  done.  He  gives 
up  the  dispatch,  with  the  information  that  the  cause  is  hopeless,  the  Pretender  hav- 
ing abjured  his  faith  and  fled  to  Rome.  He  feels  that  Lucy's  heart  yearns  towards 
Wilmot,  so  taking  her  hand  he  places  it  in  his,  remarking  to  Sir  Geoffrey,  "  You 
placed  her  happiness  in  my  charge— here,  she  loves  and  is  loved." 

The  fever  is  catching,  and  as  Softhead  always  liked  to  imitate  a  lord,  he  suggests 
being  married  to  Barbara.  To  this,  however,  Mr.  Goodenough  Easy  strongly  ob- 
jects, but  Wilmot  slyly  reminds  him  that  when  he  was  chairman  of  the  impromptu 
meeting  of  the  previous  night  lie  had  promised,  nay,  insisted  upon  it,  that  Softhead 
should  be  his  son-in-law,  and  offers  to  explain  to  the  company  the  circumstances. 
This  is  too  much  for  Goodenough  Easy,  so  he  consents. 

All  are  made  happy — treason  is  crushed — love  is  promoted — and  the  conclusion  is 
arrived  at  by  allthe  party  assembled,  that,  with  all  their  faults,  they  are  not  so  bad 
as  they  seem. 


REMARKS. 


"  Not  so  bad  as  we  seem  "  was  written  by  the  author  more  with  a  view  to  its  pro- 
duction in  private  on  a  special  occasion  than  to  its  representation  upon  the  stage ; 
hence  it  is  that  many  of  the  ideas  are  elaborately  worked  out,  and  many  of  the  in- 
cidents, slight  in  themselves,  unduly  and  needlessly  extended. 

The  late  Duke  of  Devonshire  was,  and  had  been  for  many  years  of  his  life,  a  warm 
and  earnest  patron  of  Literature  and  the  Drama.  To  all  who  were  connected  with 
those  professions  he  evpr  extended  a  genial  and  noble  sympathy,  and  was  always 
ready  to  befriend  every  member,  high  or  low,  of  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  his 
•'  brotherhood."  He  was  also  the  founder  of  an  institution  for  rendering  assistance 
to  any  one  of  the  class  who  should  unfortunately,  as  was  too  often  the  case,  be  in 
need  of  it. 

Having  made  arrangements  to  give  a  grand  entertainment  to  Her  M.tjesty,  Queen 
Victoria,  at  his  palatial  house  in  London,  Bulwer  readily  entered  into  his  desire  to 
make  the  occasion  one  worthy  of  note,  arid  accordingly  constructed  the  present  play. 
It  was  produced  in  a  theatre  especially  erected  for  the  purpose,  fitted  up  in  the 
most  complete  and  costly  manner,  and  was  performed  before  the  Queen  and  one  of 
the  most  noble  and  brilliant  audiences  ever  assembled  ;  all  the  parts  being  filled  by 
amateur  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  eminent  position  and  ability.  The  result  may 
well  be  imagined  :  the  sparkling  wit,  refined  language  and  polished  manners  of  all 
the  actors  naturally  met  with  approval  from  such  a  select  audience,  and  it  was  duly 
announced  as  being  a  great  and  decided  success.  But  when  the  composition  was 
submitted  to  a  public  ordeal,  and  its  merits  judged  by  a  severer  tribunal,  the  weak 
nature  of  the  plot,  the  undue  extension  of  the  details,  and  a  faulty  construction, 
caused  it  to  fail  in  producing  a  confirmatory  verdict. 

The  American  stage  bore  oft  the  palm  of  making  the  first  attempt  to  test  the  mer- 
its of  the  new  work  by  its  production  in  public,  bringing  it  out  at  Burton's  Cham- 
bers Street  Theatre  on  August  29th,  1851.  It  was  well  mounted,  but  to  no  good- 
lack  of  interest,  want  of  incident,  and  the  absence  of  effective  situations  were  not  to 
be  atoned  for  by  fine  language  and  occasionally  long  speeches ;  the  consequence  was 
an  unsatisfactory  reception,  and  an  eirly  withdrawal.  It  should  be  noted,  however, 
that  while  the  cast  of  the  characters  embraced  the  names  of  several  excellent  players, 


NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM.  13 

scarcely  any  of  them  had  a  part  suitable  to  their  peculiar  talents.  Burton,  Dyott, 
Dunn,  Uiaiul,  and  Parday  were  admirable  actors  in  their  respective  lines;  but  in 
this  cast  they  were  singularly  out  of  their  proper  places. 

Two  years  afterwards  the  Loudon  stage  made  the  attempt,  by  producing  it  at  the 
Theatre  Royal  Haymarket,  where  it  had  the  advantage  of  actors  in  every  respect 
admirably  adapted  to  the  characters  personated,  bicked  up  by  the  best  mounting 
possible.  Like  the  attempt  in  New  York,  it  met  with  very  little  favor,  was  with- 
drawn after  a  short  run,  and  has  not  been  produced  since.  That  this  was  a  true  test 
of  the  merits  of  the  play  is  beyond  a  doubt ;  for  all  that  professional  ability  could 
do  to  ensure  success  was  unquestionably  done.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  everyone 
of  the  actors  engaged,  rose  afterwards  to  the  top  of  the  profession  in  their  several 
branches;  one  more  especially,  Mr.  Barry  Sullivan,  who  his  attained  a  most  dis- 
tinguished positiou  amongst  the  many  candidates  for  high  histrionic  honors.  All 
of  them  too, curiously  enough,  became  lessees  and  managers  of  the  principal  London 
theatres. 

It  seems  to  have  been  the  author's  aim  to  present  each  of  the  personages  in  a  par- 
ticular style,  aud  to  change  him  into  quite  an  opposite  one. 

In  Hardman  he  represents  a  young,  energetic,  and  talented  man,  overcoming 
every  obstacle  in  his  path  of  ambition,  and  achieving  all  that  he  desires  ;  loving 
warmly,  and  yet  so  moved  by  the  generosity  of  his  rival,  and  a  sense  of  honor,  that 
when  he  becomes  aware  that  the  heart  of  the  girl  he  adores  is  not  his,  though  her 
hand  may  be,  for  services  rendered  to  her  father,  he  does  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  his 
own  desires  for  her  happiness,  and  surrenders  her  to  Wilmot,  knowing  their  affec- 
tion to  be  warm  and  mutual.  Again,  he  secures  the  treasonous  secret  of  Lord  Lof- 
tus  and  the  Duke  to  further  his  designs  in  winning  Lucy,  but  throws  over  his  in- 
tentions and  saves  them  from  an  untimely  death. 

The  Duke  of  Middlesex  is  the  type  of  a  prou>l,  haughty,  and  conceited  class,  of 
whom,  at  that  period,  there  were  many  representatives;  but  on  the  other  side  of  his 
character  there  is  a  spirit  of  honor  and  chivalry  in  him  highly  to  be  commended. 
The  production  of  the  Confession  and  Memoirs  of  his  brother,  Lord  Mowbray,  is 
certain,  by  the  exposure  of  their  loose  and  scandalous  contents,  to  bring  ridicule 
and  shame  upon  himself  and  the  family  name  ;  his  vauity  consequently  recoils  at 
the  prospect,  but  when  he  learns  that  a  woman's  honor  is  at  stake,  and  the  salva- 
tion of  a  wife  and  mother  is  to  be  achieved,  he  hesitates  no  longer  ;  like  a  true- 
hearted  man  and  a  gentleman  he  agrees  to  surrender  the  document  quite  regardless 
whether  the  result  be  unpleasant  to  him  or  not.  Thus  we  see  the  different  sides  to 
his  character. 

Lord  Wilmot  is  like  many  young  men  of  that,  and  even  of  the  present,  day — 
wealthy,  light-hearted,  and  gay.  His  passion  for  Lucy  is  of  very  rapid  growth,  and 
he  is  one  of  those  persons  who  strike  quickly.  Smitten  by  her  charms,  he  soon  tells 
his  love,  although  aware  of  the  existence  of  a  prior  canJidate.  Yet,  in  spite  of  his 
affecti  n,  there  is  such  a  feeling  of  generosity  in  him  th  it  he  grieves  to  see  his  rival 
disappointed  in  a  chance  of  winning  her,  so  he  sets  to  work  and  procures  for  him  the 
official  appointment  he  had  failed  to  obtain,  although  it  is  likely  to  raise  him  consid- 
erably in  the  eyes  of  his  ladylove,  and  render  him  a  more  formidable  opponent. 
Here  again  we  have  different  sides  of  another  character. 

Mr.  Goodenough  Easy  has  but  one  idea  of  the  proper  course  of  life  to  pursue— 
trade.  He  was  born  and  bred  in  business  in  the  city,  and  there  he  must  remain  and 
die  believing  that  a  man  has  no  right  to  move  out  of  the  sphere  in  which  he  entered 
life.  But  even  he  has  to  change  his  character  and  ideas,  and  to  give  way  to  the  in- 
fluence of  rank  and  position,  aud  actually  boasts  of  the  pride  he  feels  in  the  new- 
made  friendship  of  a  lord,  yielding  most  amiably  to  his  wishes. 

As  for  Shadowly  Softhead,  he  represents  a  class  of  which  we  constantly  meet  speci- 
mens ;  but  there  is  nothing  particularly  new  or  striking  in  his  character,  or  in  that 
of  either  of  the  ladies,  to  call  for  any  special  notice. 

David  Fallen,  the  poor  poet,  is  a  prettily  conceived  character.  The  description 
of  his  career  in  Act  IV.  is  well  drawn,  and  is  a  truthful  illustration  of  the  life  of 


14:  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM. 

m  iny  talented  men  in  the  last  century.  Might  we  not  also  say  in  this  1  Notwith- 
standing ail  the  vicissitudes,  tria  s,  and  Bufferings  through  which  he  has  passed, 
honor  remains  intact.  Finding  the  original  purpose  for  which  he  was  intrusted 
with  Lord  Mowbray's  Memoirs  and  Confession  cannot  he  carried  out,  he  does  not 
hesitate  10  give  them  up  to  the  Duke,  rather  than  allow  the  secrets  of  a  high  family 
and  a  home  to  be  scattered  abroad,  bringing  scandal  and  disgrace  upon  all  its  mem- 
bers. 

Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside,  after  all  he  has  endured,  is,  as  we  might  naturally  expect, 
a  suspicious,  discontented,  and  irritable  old  gentleman  ;  his  mind  fixed  upon  one 
point— a  firm  conviction  of  his  wife's  guilt,  which  nothing  can  move.  But  this  char- 
acter also  has  to  undergo  a  change  and  exhibit  another  side,  so  when  the  time  comes 
to  make  all  things  clear,  the  old  love  comes  up  as  bright  as  ever,  and  every  trouble 
vanishes. 

There  are  not  many  telling  situations  in  the  play,  nor  any  particular  display  of 
fine  writing,  until  towards  the  end,  in  the  Fourth  and  Fifth  Acts.  It  bears  evident 
sigus  of  hurried  composition,  and  it  would  be  difficult  for  any  one  to  believe,  by  a 
perusal  of  the  work,  supposing  him,  of  course,  to  be  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  it  had 
em  in  ited  from  the  same  source  as  Itichelieu,  Money,  and  the  Lady  of  Lyons.  There 
is,  however,  groundwork  for  a  neat  drama  by  using  some  little  excision  and  making 
a  few  alterations  in  the  arrangement  of  the  incidents.  The  female  parts  are  very 
tame;  indeed,  there  are  no  very  strongly  marked  and  distinctive  characters  in  it, 
drawn  in  the  brilliant  colors  which  distinguish  other  productions  of  the  noble  author. 

The  imaginary  chairmanship  of  Easy  in  the  Third  Scene  of  Act  III.  is  ludicrous. 
The  interview  between  Lord  Wilmot  and  David  Fallen  is  very  well  done,  and  the 
bitter  feelings  with  which  the  latter  relates  the  circumstance  of  the  iusult  he  re- 
ceived from  the  Duke  are  excellently  rendered.  So  also  is  that  portion  of  the  Third 
Scene  in  Act  IV.,  where  Wilmot  describes  to  Softhead  his  interview  with  the  Prime 
Minister,  AValpole,  and  how  he  managed  to  obtain  from  him  the  place  for  Hardman 
in  exchange  for  his  Murillo  painting.  In  the  hands  of  an  able  actor  this  can  cer- 
tainly be  made  the  gem  of  the  play.  The  language  is  witty,  sharp,  and  well  chosen, 
and  if  delivered  clearly,  rapidly,  and  judiciously,  the  speech  cannot  fail  to  ensure 
applause.  But  perhaps  the  neatest  portion  of  the  composition  is  that  entitled 
"  David  Fallen  is  Dead  !'"  intended  as  a  sort  of  key  to  the  play.  It  was  to  have  been 
spoken  at  the  original  amateur  performance ;  not  being  ready,  however,  it  did  not 
appear  until  the  work  was  published,  when  it  was  introduced  as  an  after  scene — as 
an  acted  epilogue.  The  idea  is  a  novel  one,  and  the  language  well  chosen,  witty, 
appropriate,  and  telling. 

At  any  rate,  the  design  of  the  play  is  a  good  one,  and  if  not  carried  out  so  well  and 
effectively  as  it  might  be,  the  principle  is  established  that  there  are  "  many  sides  to 
a  character,"  and  that  all  of  us  are  "  Not  so  Bad  as  we  Seem."  J.  m.  k. 


NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM'.  15 


BILL  FOR  PROGRAMMES,  ETC. 
The  events  of  the  Play  take  place  in  London.     Period — 1720. 
ACT  I. 
Scene  I.— LORD  WILMOT'S  APARTMENT  IN  ST.  JAMES  S. 
/he  Mysterious  Lady — The  Invitation — An   Ambitious  Citizen — Haughty 
Nobility  and  an  aspiring  Youth — A  Small  Man  and  a  Great  Mind  - 
Memoirs  of  a  Gay  Nobleman — The  Jacobite  Plot — Treason  and  its  Ad- 
herents—  The  Compact. 

ACT  II. 
Scene   I.— LIBRARY    IN    THE    HOUSE    OF    SIR    GEOFFREY 

THORNSIDE 
An  Irritable  Master  and  his  Country  Servant — Suspicions  and  Fears — The 
Mysterious  Nosegay — Poison  in  Flowers — An  exalted  Trader — A  Ruse 
of  Love — A  Declaration  of  Affection — The  Rival  Lovers — Hardman  and 
Wilmot — The  Conspiracy. 

ACT  III. 
Scene  I— WILL'S   COFFEE-HOUSE. 
Nobility,  Wit,  and  Learning — Poetry  and   Wine — Plot  and  Counterplot — 
The  Noble  Conspirators — A  Jacobite  Agent — The  Secret  Dispatch — The 
Meeting  Betrayed—  A  Poet's  Story  of  Politics  and  Starvation — Coyifes- 
sions  of  a  Seduce) — A  Dinner  for  Six — The  Trap  Laid. 

Scene  II.— LIBRARY  IN  SIR  GEOFFREY'S   HOUSE. 
Father  and  Daughter — A   Masked  Listener — The  Mysterious   Voice — The 
Baronet's  Suspicions  of  a  Wife's  Honor — The  Interruption — The  Put- 
suit  of  the  Unknown. 
Scene  III.— OLD  STREET  IN  LONDON  AND  DEADMANS  LANE. 
Tracking  the  Masked  Lady — The  Result  of  the  Dinner— Wine  and  its  Ef- 
fects— Mr.  Goodenough  Easy  as  Chairman — An  Election  for  the  City — 
A  Living  Table — ^4  March  to  the  Watch-house — A  Softhead  by  Name 
and  Nature — The  Masked  Lady  again — Wilmot  in  Pursuit. 
ACT   IV. 
Scene  I.— LIBRARY  IN  SIR   GEOFFREY'S   HOUSE. 
Hardman' s  Story  of  his  Life  and  Career — Sir  Geoffrey  Reveals  his  True 
Name  and  the  Secret  of  his  Dishonor — Hardman  on  the  Track  for  the 
Memoirs  and  Confession  of  the  Culprit. 
Scene  II.— THE  GARRET  HOME  OF  DAYID  FALLEN. 
Poetry  and  Poverty — Milk  Scores  in  Arrear — A  Warm-hearted  Irishman — 
The  Hunt  for  the  Memoirs — The  Poet's  Story  of  Indignity  and  Insult— 
Nobility  of  Nature — The  Bribe  Refused — Heroic  Example  of  Generosity 
—  Wilmot  obtains  the  Memoirs — Hardman  Defeated — "  Now  then  for 
the  Treasonous  Dispatch  !  " 

Scene  III.— THE  MALL. 
1%S  D::fce  a:id  the  Memoirs — How   Wilmot  bribed  the  Prime   Minister — 
Value  aof  Painting — Lu  ■■/  o:i  f'e  way  to  her  Mother. 


16 


NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WK    SKESI. 


ACT  V. 

Sckne  I.— OLD  MILL  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  THAMES. 

Hardman  secures  the  Dispatch — Proofs  of  Treason — The  Story  of  Lad// 
MorlancP8  Wrongs— The  Injured  Wife  and  a  Seducer's  Confession — A 
Rival  in  Love — Officers  ordered  for  Dead-man's  Lane. 

Scene  1!.— APARTMENT  IN  THE   LONE  HOUSE  IN  DEADMAN'S 

LANE. 

T7ie  Meeting  of  Mother  and  Daughter— Hardman  in  Pursuit— The  Dis 
patch  to  the  Pretender— A  Fathers  Treason  and  a  Son's  Ruin—  A 
Lover  s  Appeal— An  Enraged  Parent— The  Story  of  the  Unki.own 
Benefactor—  Proofs  of  Innocence — Reunion  of  Husband  and  Wife 
— A  Noble  Sacrifice— Lovers  made  Happy —  Treason  Destroyed— All 
Prove  they  are  not  so  Bad  as  tr.ey  Seem  ! 


EXPLANATION  OF  THE  STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 

The  Actor  is  supposed  to  face  the  Audience. 


SCENE. 


\ 


C.2e. 


\ 


L.  3e. 


E.  13. 


\ 


L.2E, 


L.  1  E. 


/ 


e.  z.  o. 

AUDIENCE. 


l.  Left. 

l.  c.  Left  Centre. 

l.  1  e.  Left  First  Entrance. 

l.  2  e.  Left  Second  Entrance. 

l.  3  e.  Left  Third  Entrance. 

L.  V.  E.  Left  Upper  Entrance 

(wherever  this  Scene  nay  be.) 

P.  L.  c.  Door  Left  Centre. 


c.  Centre. 
r.  Eight. 

it.  1  e.  Eight  First  Entrance. 

li.  2  e.  Eight  Second  Entrance. 

it.  3  e.  Eight  Third  Entrance. 

K.  v.  e.  Eight  Upper  Entrance. 

d.  r..  c-  Door  Right  Centre. 


NOT  SO  BAD  AS  WE  SEEM; 
OR  MANY  SIDES  TO  A  CHARACTER. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I. — Lord  Wilmot's  apartment  in  St.  James's. 

Enter  Smart,  c.  d.  l.,  showing  in  Lady  Ellinor,  masked. 

Smart.  My  Lord  is  dressing.  As  you  say,  madam,  it  is  late.  But 
though  he  never  wants  sleep  more  than  ouce  a  week,  yet  when  he  doas 
sleep,  I  am  proud  to  say  he  sleeps  better  than  any  man  in  the  three 
kingdoms. 

Lady  E.  I  have  heard  much  of  Lord  Wilmot's  eccentricities — but  also 
of  his  generosity  and  honor. 

Smart.  Yes,  madam,  nobody  like  him  for  speaking  ill  of  himself  and 
doing  good  to  another. 

Enter  AVilmot,  r.  d. 

Wilmot.  ':  And  sleepless  lovers  just  at  twelve  awake."  Any  duels 
to-day,  Smart  1  No — I  see  something  more  dangerous — a  woman,  (to 
Smart)  Vanish  [exit  Smart,  c.  d.  Places  a  chair,  l.  c,  for  Lady  E. 
She  sits  and  he  also,  near  her)  Madam,  have  I  the  honor  to  know  you  1 
Condescend  10  remove  your  vizard.  (Lady  E.  lifts  her  mask.  Aside)  Very 
line  woman,  still — decidedly  dangerous,  (aloud)  Madam,  allow  me  one 
precautionary  observation — My  affections  are  engaged. 

Lady.  So  1  conjectured  ;  for  I  have  noticed  you  from  the  window  of 
my  house,  walking  in  the  garden  of  Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside  with  his  fair 
daughter;  and  she  seems  worthy  to  fix  the  affections  of  the  most  fickle. 

Wil.  My  dear  madam,  do  you  know  Sir  Geoffrey  ?  Bind  me  to  you  for 
life,  and  say  a  kind  word  to  him  in  my  favor. 

Lady  E.  Can  you  need  ii  1 — young,  highborn,  accomplished 

Wil.  Sir  Geoffrey's  very  objections  against  me.  He  says  I  am  a  fine 
gentleman,  and  has  a  vehement  aversion  to  that  section  of  mortals,  be- 
cause ha  implies  that  a  tine  gentleman  once  did  him  a  mortal  injury. 
But  you  seem  moved — dear  lady,  what  is  your  interest  in  Sir  Geoffrey 
or  my. -elf  ? 

Lady  E.  You  shall  know  later.  Tell  me,  did  Lucy  Thornside  ever 
speak  to  you  of  her  mother  ? 

Wil.  Only  to  regret,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  she  had  never  known 
a  mother — that  lady  died,  I  believe,  while  Lucy  was  but  an  infant. 

Ladj"  E.  When  you  next  have  occasion  to  speak  to  her,  say  that  you 
have  seen  a  friend  of  her  mother,  who  has  something  to  impart  that 
may  contribute  to  her  father's  happiness  and  her  own. 


18  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEKM.  [ACT  I. 

Wil.  I  will  do  your  bidding  tins  day,  and 

Soft,  (icithout).  Oh,  never  mind  announcing  me,  Smart. 
Lady  E.  (starting  up).   I  would  not  be  seen  bere — I   must  be  gone. 
Call  on  me  at  nine  o'clock  this  evening  ;  this  is  my  address. 

Softhead,  enters  c.  d.  l.,  as  Loud  Wilmot  is  protecting  Lady  E.'s  re- 
treat, and  stares  aghast. 

Wil.  (aside).  Do  not  fear  him — best  little  fellow  in  the  world,  ambi- 
tious to  be  thought  good  for  nothing,  and  frightened  out  of  his  wits  at 
the  sight  of  a  petticoat,  (aloud,  as  he  attends  her  out)  Allow  me  to  escort 
your  ladyship.  [Exits,  c  d.  l.,  with  Lady  E. 

Soft.  Ladyship!  lucky  dog.     But  then  lie's  such  a  villain  ! 

Wil.  (retaining,  and  looking  at  card).  Very  mysterious  visitor — sign  of 
Crown  and  Portcullis,  Deadman's  Lane — a  very  funereal  residence,  (ob- 
serving his  visitor  apparently  for  the  first  time)  Ha,  Softhead  !  my  Pylades 
— my  second  self  !     Annua 

Soft,  (astonished,  not  understanding  Latin).  Enemy  ! 

Wil.  Dimidium  mew. 

Soft,  (aside).  Dimi !  that's  the  oath  last  in  fashion,  I  warrant,  (aloud, 
with  a  swagger  and  a  slap  on  Wilmot's  back)  Dimidum  mete !  how  d'ye  do  ? 
But  what  is  that  lady  ? — masked  too  1  Oh,  Fred,  Fred  ;  you  are  a  mon- 
ster ! 

Wil  Monster!  ay,  horrible!  That  lady  may  well  wear  a  mask.  She 
has  poisoned  three  husbands. 

Soft.  Dimidum  mar. 

Wil.  A  mere  harmless  gallantry  has  no  longer  a  charm  for  me. 

Soft.  Nor  for  me,  either  !   (asnle)  Never  had. 

Wil.  Nothin2  should  excite  us  true  men  of  pleasure  but  some  colos- 
sal atrocity,  to  bring  our  necks  within  an  inch  of  the  gallows. 

Soft,  (aside).  He's  a  perfect  demon  !  Alas,  I  shall  never  come  up  to 
his  mark ! 

He-enter  Smaut. 

Smart.  Mr.  Hardman,  my  Lord. 

Wil.  Hush  !  Must  not  shock  Mr.  Hardman,  the  most  friendly,  oblig- 
ing man,  and  so  clever — will  be  a  minister  some  day.    But  not  of  our  set. 

Enter  Hardman,  c   d.  l.     Exit  Smart. 

Hard.  And  how  fares  my  dear  Lord  I 

Wil.  (a).  Bravely — and  you  1  Ah!  you  men  who  live  for  others 
have  a  hard  life  of  it.  Let  me  present  you  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Shadowiy 
Soil  head,  (ihey  salute  each  other.) 

Hard.  (l.  c  )  The  son  of  the  great  clothier  who  has  such  weight  in 
the  Guild  7  I  have  heard  of  you  from  Mr.  Easy  and  others,  though 
never  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  you  before,  Mr.  Softhead. 

Soft  (bowing,  r.  c.).  Shadowiy  Softhead — my  grandmother  was  one 
of  the  Shadowlys — a  genteel  family  that  move  about  court.  She  mar- 
ried a  Softhead 

Wil.  A  race  much  esteemed  in  the  city. 

Hard,  [turning  aside  and  glancing  at  painting,  L.).  A  new  picture,  my 
Lord  ]  I'm  no  very  great  judge — but  it  seems  to  me  quite  a  master- 
piece 

Wil.  I've  a  passion  for  art.  Sold  off  my  stud  to  buy  that  picture. 
(aside)  And  please  my  poor  father,   (aloud)  'Tis  a  Murillo. 

Hard.  A  Murillo  !  you  know  that  Walpole,  too,  has  a  passion  for 


NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SKEM. 


19 


ACT  I.] 

nictures  In  despair  at  this  moment  that  he  can't  find  a  Murillo  to  hang 
up  in  hi;  gallery.  If  ever  you  want  to  corrupt  the  Prime  Minister's  vir- 
tue  vou  have  only  to  say,  "  I  have  got  a  Munllo. 

Wil  WeH  if.  instead  of  the  pictures,  he'll  just  hang  up  the  men  he 
has  bought,  yon  may  tell  him  he  shall  have  my  Munllo  for  nothing  ! 

Hard  Bou-dit?  now  really,  my  Lord,  this  is  so  vulgar  a  scandal 
against  Sir  Robert.     Let  me  assure  your  Lordship-— 

Wtt.  Lordship  !  Plague  on  these  titles  among  friends.  Whj  ,  if  the 
Duke  of  Middlesex  himself-commonly  styled  "the  Proud  Jake  - 
who  said  to  his  Duchess,  when  she  astonished  his  dignity  01  e  da v  i.th 
a  kiss,  "  Madam,  my  first  wife  was  a  Percy,  and  she  uevei   took  such  a 

'  BtawTHa!  ha!  well,  if  "  the  Proud  Duke-— -" 
Wil.  Could  deign  to  come  here,  we  would  say,     How   d  je  do,  m} 

d^OFT!dSoeweX would,  Fred!     Middlesex.     Shouldn't  you  like  to  know 

'  Habd  Mirhave  known  one  or  two-in  opposition  ;  and  had  rather  too 

"so^ToomuchofaDuke:      La!     I  could  never  have  eno'  of  a 

Duke!  •  ,       , 

Hard.  You  may  live  to  think  otherwise. 

Re-enter  Smart.  • 

Smart.  His  Grace*  the  Duke  of  Middlesex. 

Enter  Ddke,  c.  d.  l.     Exit  Smart. 

Dcke    Mv  Lord  Wilmot,  your  most  obedient  servant. 

wT(S).  Now  then,  courage!  {.loud)  Hdw  d'ye  do,  my  dear  Mid- 

dlDuK?E.  "How   d'ye   do?"     "Middlesex!"     Gracious 'Heaven;  what 
will  this  aoe  come  to!  (sits  in  chair,  c.) 

VIZ    (aside,  crossing  over  to  Softhead).  Well,  it  tnay  be  the  fashion, 
—yet,  I  could  hardly  advise  you  to  adopt  it. 

Soft.  But  if  Fred 

Hard    Oh  !  certainly  Fred  is  an  excellent  model—— 

Soft.  Yet  there's  something  very  awful  in  a  live  Duke. 

Hard    Tut,  a  mere  mortal  like  ourselves,  after  all. 

Soft.  D'\  e  really  think  so  1— upon  your  honor  1 

Hard    Sir,  I'm  sure  of  it— upon  my  honor,  a  mortal ! 

Duke  (turning  stiffly  round,  and  half  rising  from  Ins  chair  m  majestw  con- 
de,ce,2n     Yol-  Lordship's  friends  ?     A  good  day  to  you,  gentlemen. 
Xf"     And  a  good  day  to  yourself.     My  Lord  Du-I  mean,  my  dear 

bUDoKf  "  S"-<<  boy^L  !"-"  dear  !"     I  must  be  in  a  dream. 
wIl     (to  Softhead)  Apologize  to  the  Duke.  {to  Habdmas)    Then 

...  j   <•„  „f  <i  (ho  Proud  Duke  "of  Somerset,  and  some  other 

gfirt  £»SSSSSS5^  Stu^So7herae«,  that  -  he  wa3 
an  insolent  fellow  to  have  bled  her-in  fterpr««w«. 


20  NOT    SO    1UD    AS    WE    SKF.il.  [ACT  I. 

hurry  him  off  into  the  next  room,  (o  the  Duke)  Allow  me  to  explain  to 
your  Grace. 

Soft,  {to  Hardman).  But  what  shall  I  say  1 

Hard.  Anything  most  civil  and  servile. 

Soft,  {aloud,  and  crossing  over  toward  l.  c,  followed  by  Hardman).  I — I 
— my  Lord  Duke,  I  really  most  humhly  entreat  your  Grace's  pardon, 

Duke.  Small  man,  your  pardon  is  grauted,  for  your  existence  is  ef- 
faced. So  far  as  my  recognition  is  necessary  to  your  sense  of  being, 
consider  yourself  henceforth — annihilated  ! 

Soft.  (l.  c).  1  humbly  thank  your  Grace!  {aside,  to  Hardman)  An- 
nihilated! what's  that? 

Hard.  Duke*s  English  for  excused.  (Softhead  wants  to  get  back  to 
the  Duke)  What!  have  not  you  had  enough  of  the  Duke? 

Soft.  No,  now  we've  made  up.  I  never  hear  malice.  I  should  like 
to  know  more  of  him;  one  can't  get  at  a  Duke  every  day.  If  he  did 
call  me  "small  man,"  he  is  a  Duke — and  such  a  remarkably  fine  one  ! 

Hahd.  (drawing  him  away).  You  deserve  to  be  haunted   by  him  !     No 
— no  !     Come  into  the  next  room. 
[Exeunt  through  side-door,  l.    Softhead  very  reluctant  to  leave  the  Duke. 

Duke.  There's  something  portentous  in  that  small  man's  audacity. 
Quite  an  aberration  of  Nature  !  But  we  are  alone  now,  we  two  gentle- 
men, (motions  to  Wilmot  to  sit  near  him — he  does  so)  Your  father  is  my 
friend,  and  his  son  must  have  courage  and  honor. 

Wil.  Faith,  I  had  the  courage  to  say  I  would  call  your  Grace  "  Mid- 
dlesex," and  the  honor  to  keep  my  word.  So  I've  given  good  proof 
that  I've  honor  and  courage  for  anything! 

Duke  (affectionately).  You're  a  wild  boy.  You  have  levities  and  fol- 
lies. But  alas  !  even  rank  does  not  exempt  its  possessor  from  the  faults 
of  humanity.  Very  strange  !  My  own  dead  brother — (with  a  look  of 
disgust.) 

Wil.  Your  brother,  Lord  Henry  de  Mowbray  ?  My  dear  Duke,  pray 
forgive  me  ;  but  I  hope  there's  no  truth  in  what  Tonson,  the  bookseller, 
told  me  at  Will's — that  your  brother  had  left  behind  certain  Confessions 
or  Memoirs,  which  are  all  that  might  be  apprehended  from  a  man  of  a 
temper  so  cynical,  and  whose  success  in  the  gay  world  was  so — terrible. 
(aside)  Determined  seducer  and  implacable  cut-throat ! 

Duke.  Ha!  then  those  Memoirs  exist!  My  brother  kept  his  profli- 
gate threat.  I  shall  be  ridiculed,  lampooned.  I,  the  head  of  the  Mow- 
brays  !  Powers  above,  is  nothing  on  earth  then  left  sacred  !  Can  you 
learn  in  whose  hands  is  this  scandalous  record  1 

Wil.  I  will  try.  Lpave  it  to  me.  I  know  Lord  Henry  bore  you  a 
grudge  for  renouncing  his  connection  on  account  of  his  faults — of  hu- 
manity !  I  remember  an  anecdote,  how  he  fought  with  a  husband,  some 
poor  devil  named  Morland,  for  a  boast  in  a  tavern,  which  — Oh,  but  we'll 
not  speak  of  that.  We  mu4  get  the  Memoir.  We  gentlemen  have  all 
common  cause  here. 

Duke  (taking  his  hand).  Worthy  son  of  your  father.  You  deserve  in- 
deed the  trust  that  I  come  to  confide  to  you.  Listen.  His  Majesty,  Kh)2 
James,  having  been  deceived  by  vague  promises  in  the  Expedition  of 
'Fifteen,  has  very  properly  refused  to  imperil  his  rights  again,  unless 
upon  the  positive  pledge  of  a  sufficient  number  of  persons  of  influence 
to  risk  life  and  all  in  his  service.  Myself  and  some  others,  not  wholly 
unknown  to  you,  propose  to  join  in  a  pledge  which  our  King  with  such 
reason  exacts.  Your  assistance,  my  Lord,  would  be  valuable,  for  you 
are  the  idol  of  the  young.  Doubts  were  entertained  of  your  loyalty.  I 
have  come  to  dispel  them — a  word  will  suffice.     If  we  succeed,  you  re- 


A.CI'  I.J  NOT    SO    BAD    AS   WE    SEEM.  21 

store  the  son  of  a  Stuart ;  if  we  fail — you  will  go  to  the  scaffold  by  the 
side  of  John,  Duke  of  Middlesex !  Can  you  hesitate  ?  or  is  silence  as- 
sent ? 

Wil.  My  dear  Duke,  forgive  ine  that  I  dismiss  with  a  jest  a  subject 
so  fatal,  if  gravely  entertained.  I  have  so  many  other  engagements  at 
present  that,  just  to  recollect  them,  1  must  keep  my  head  on  ray  shoul- 
ders.    Accept  my  humblest  excuses. 

Duke.  Accept  mine  for  mistaking  tbe  son  of  Lord  Loftus.  (rises  and 
goes  up  to  c.  D.I 

Wil.  Lord  Loftus  again  !  (rising)  Stay.  Your  Grace  spoke  of  persons 
not  wholly  unknown  to  me.     I  entreat  you  to  explain. 

Dukk  My  Lord,  I  have  trusted  you  with  my  own  life;  but  to  com- 
promise by  a  word  the  life  of  another ! — permit  me  to  remind  your 
Lordship  that  I  am  John,  Duke  of  Middlesex.  [Exit,  c   d.  l 

Wil.  Can  my  father  have  entangled  himself  in  some  Jacobite  plot  ? 
How  shall  I  find  out  1  Ha  !  Hardman,  Hardman,  1  say  !  Here's  a  man 
who  finds  everything  out. 

Re-enter  Hardman  and  Softuead. 

Softhead,  continue  annihilated  for  the  next  five  minutes  or  so.  These 
books  will  help  to  the  cessation  of  your  existence,  mental  and  bodily. 
Mr.  Locke,  on  the  Understanding,  will  show  that  you  have  not  an  innate 
idea  ;  and  the  Essay  of  Bishop  Berkeley  will  prove  you  have  not  an  atom 
of  matter. 

Soft.  But 

Wil.  No  buts  ! — they're  the  fashion. 

Soft.  Oh,  if  they're  the  fashion — (seats  himself  at  the  table,  e.  3  E.,  and 
commences  to  read  vigorously,  gradual/g  subsiding  into  dozing  ) 

Wil.  (c. — to  Hardman,  l.  a).  My  dear  Hardman,  you  are  the  only 
one  of  my  friends  whom,  in  spite  of  your  politics,  my  high  Tory  father 
condescends  to  approve  of.  Every  one  knows  that  his  family  were  stout 
cavaliers  attached  to  the  Stuarts. 

Hard,  (aside).  Ah  !  I  guess  why  the  Jacobite  Duke  has  been  here.  I 
must  look  up  David  lallen  ;  he  is  in  all  the  schemes  for  the  Stuarts. 
Well— and 

Wil.  And  the  Jacobites  are  daring  and  numerous;  and — in  short,  I 
should  just  like  lo  know  that  my  father  views  things  with  the  eyes  of 
our  more  wise  generation. 

Hard.  Why  not  ask  him  yourself  1 

Wil.  Alas  !  I'm  in  disgrace ;  he  even  begs  me  not  to  come  to  his 
house.     You  see  he  wants  me  lo  marry. 

Hard.  But  your  father  bade  me  tell  you  he  would  leave  your  choice 
to  yourself; — would  marriage  then  seem  so  dreadful  a  sacrifice  1 

Wil.  Sacrifice!  Leave  my  choice  to  myself"?  My  dear  father. 
(rings  the  hand-bell)  Smart !    ^re-enter  Smaut)  Older  my  coach. 

[Exit  Smart. 

Hard.  This  impatience  looks  very  like  love. 

Wil.  Pooh !  what  do  ycu  know  about  lovel — you — who  love  only  am- 
bition !     Solemn  old  jilt,  with  whom  one's  never  safe  from  a  rival. 

Hard.  Yes;  — always  safe  from  a  rival,  both  in  love  and  ambition,  if 
one  will  watch  to  detect,  and  then  scheme  to  destroy  him. 

Wil.  Destroy — ruthless  exterminator!  May  we  never  be  rivals! 
Pray  keep  to  ambition. 

Hard.  But  ambition  lures  me  to  love,  (aside)  This  fair  Lucy  Thorn- 
side,  as  rich  as  she's  fair!  woe  indeed  to  the  man  who  shall  be  my  rival 
with  her.  [aloud)   1  will  call  there  to-day. 


22  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEK.  [ACT  I, 

Wil.  Then  you'll  see  ray  father,  and  sound  him  1 

Hakd.  I  will  do  so. 

Wil.  You  are  the  best  friend  I  have.  If  ever  I  can  serve  you  in  re- 
turn  

Hard.  Tut !  in  serving  ray  friends  'tis  myself  that  I  serve. 

[Exit,  c.  D.  L. 

Wil.   {after  a  moment's  thought).  Now  to  Lucy.     Ha  !   Softhead. 

Soft,  {waking  up).  Heh  ! 

Wil.  {aside).  I  must  put  this  suspicious  Sir  Geoffrey  on  a  wrong 
scent.  If  Softhead  were  to  make  love  to  the  girl — violently — desper- 
ately. 

Soft,  (yawning).  I  would  give  the  world  to  he  tucked  up  in  bed  now. 

Wil.  I've  a  project— an  intrigue — he  all  life  and  all  fire  !  Why,  you 
tremble 

Soft.   With  excitement,  {rises  and  advances)  Proceed  ! 

Wil.  There's  a  certain  snarling,  suspicious  Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside, 
with  a  beautiful  daughter,  to  whom  he  is  a  sort  of  a  one-sided  bear  of  a 
father — all  growl  and  no  hug. 

Soft.   I  know  him  ! 

Wil    You  ]     How  J 

Soft.  Why,  his  most  intimate  friend  is  Mr.  Goodenough  Easy. 

Wil    Lucy  presented  me  to  a  Mistress  Barbara  Easy.     Pretty  girl. 

Soft.  You  are  not  courting  her  1 

Wil.  Not.  at  present.     Are  you  ] 

Soft.  Why,  my  father  wants  me  to  marry  her. 

Wil.  You  refused  1 

Soft.  No.     1  did  not. 

Wil.  Had  she  that  impertinence  1 

Soft.  No  ;  but  her  father  had.  He  wished  for  it  once  ;  but  since 
I've  become  a  la  mode,  and  made  a  sensation  at  St.  James's,  he  says 
that  his  daughter  shall  be  courted  no  more  by  a  man  of  such  fashion. 
Oh  !  he's  low — Mr.  Easy  ;  very  good-humored  and  hearty,  but  respecta- 
ble, sober,  and  square-toed  ; — decidedly  low  ! — City  bred  !  So  I  can't 
go  much  to  his  house  ;  but  I  see  Barbara  sometimes  at  Sir  Geoffrey's. 

Wil  Excellent !  Listen.  I  am  bent  upon  adding  Lucy  Thornside  to 
the  list  of  my  conquests.  But  her  churl  of  a  father  has  already  given 
me  to  understand  that  he  hates  a  lord 

Soft.   Hates  a  lord  !     Can  such  men  be  1 

Wil.  And  despises  a  man  a  la  mode. 

Soft.  1  knew  he  was  eccentric,  but  this  is  downright  insanity. 

Wil.  Brief.  I  see  very  well  that  he'll  soon  shut  his  doors  in  my  face, 
unless  1  make  him  believe  that  it  is  not  his  daughter  who  attracts  me  to 
his  house  ;  so  I  tell  you  what  we  will  do ; — you  shall  make  love  to  Lucy 
— violent  love,  you  rogue. 

Soft.  But  Sir  Geoffrey  knows  I'm  in  love  with  the  other. 

Wil.  That's  over.  Father  refused  you — transfer  of  affection  ;  natural 
pique  and  human  inconstancy.  And,  in  return,  to  oblige  you,  I'll  make 
love  just  as  violent  to  Mistress  Barbara  Easy. 

Soft.  Stop,  stop  ;  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  that. 

Wil.  Pooh  !  nothing  more  clear.  Having  thus  duped  the  two  look- 
ers-on, we  shall  have  ample  opportunity  to  change  partners,  and  hands 
across,  then  down  the  middle,  and  up  again. 

He-enter  Smart. 

Smart.  Your  coach  waits,  my  Lord. 

Wil.  Come  along.     Fie!  that's  not  the  way  to  conduct  a  cane,  {acts 


AC  I'  JI.J  NUT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM".  23 

as  (hough  he  had  a  cane  in  his  hand)  Has  not  Mr.  Pope,  our  great  poet  of 
fashion,  given  you  the  nicest  instructions  in  that  art?  (Softhead  imi- 
tates him  with  intense  admit  at  ion.) 

•'  Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain, 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cune." 

The  cane  does  not  conduct  you  ;  you  conduct  the  cane.  Thus,  with  a 
debonnair  swing.  Now,  t'other  hand  on  youv  haunch  ,  ensy,  digage — im- 
pudently graceful ;  with  the  air  of  a  gentleman,  and  the  heart  of  a — 
monster  !     Allons  !     Vive  lajoie. 

Soft.    Vive  la  jaw,  indeed.     I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  be  hanged. 
Allons!     Vive  la  jaw!  [Exeunt,  c.  d. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Library  in  the  house  of  Sir  Geoffrey  Tiiorn-side. 

Enter  Sir  Geoffrey  and  Hodge,  l.  d. 

Sir  Geoffrey.  But  I  say  the  dog  did  lural  last  night,  and  it  is  a  most 
suspicious  circumstance. 

Hodge.  Fegs..  my  dear  measter,  if  you'se  think  that  these  Lunnon 
thieves  have  found  out  that  your  honor's  rents  were  paid  last  woik,  may- 
hap I'd  best  sleep  here  in  the  loibery. 

Sir  Geof.  (aside).    How  dues  he  know  I  keep  my  moneys  here  ? 

Hodge.  Zooks  !  I'se  the  old  b.underbuss,  and  that  will  boite  better 
than  any  dog,  I'se  warrant ! 

Sir  Geof.  (aside).  I  begin  to  suspecthim.  For  ten  years  have  I  nursed 
that  viper  at  my  heart,  and  now  he  wants  to  sleep  in  my  library,  with  a 
loaded  blunderbuss,  in  case  1  should  come  in  and  detect  him.  I  see 
murder  in  his  very  face.  How  blind  I've  been  !  (aloud)  Hodge,  you  are 
very  good — very;  come  closer,  (aside)  What  a  felon  step  he  has  !  (aloud) 
But  I  don't  keep  my  rents  here,  they're  all  gone  to  the  banker's. 

Hodge.  Mayhap  I'd  best  go  and  lock  up  the  plate  ;  or  will  you  send  . 
that  to  the  banker's  1 

Sir  Gkof.  (aside).  I  wonder  if  he  has  got  an  accomplice  at  the  banker's  ! 
It  looks  uncommonly  like  it.  (aloud)  No,  I'll  not  send  the  plate  to  the 
banker's;  I'll — consider.  You've  i.ot  detected  the  miscreant  who  has 
been  flinging  flowers  into  the  library  the  last  four  days?— or  observed 
any  one  watching  your  master  when  he  walks  in  his  garden,  from  the 
window  of  that  ugly  old  house  in  Deadman's  Lane? 

Hodge.  With  the  sign  of  the  Crown  and  Poor  Cully  1  Why,  it  maun 
be  very  leately.     'Tint  a  week  ago  'sin  it  war  empty. 

Sir  Geof.  "(aside).  How  he  evades  the  question — just  as  they  do  at  the 
Old  Bailey,  (aloud)  Get  along  with  you  and  feed  the  house-dog— he's 
honest ! 

Hodge.  Yes,  your  honor.  [Exit,  l.  d. 

Sir  Geof.  (a).  I'm  a  very  unhappy  man,  very.  Never  did  harm  to 
any  one — done  good  to  many.  And  ever  since  I  was  a  babe  in  the 
cradle,  all  the  world  have  been  conspiring  and  plotting  against  me.  It 
certainly  is  an  exceedingly  wicked  world ;  and  what  its  attraction  can 
be  to  the  other  worlds,  that  they  should  have  kept  it  spinning  through 
space  for. six  thousand  years,  I  can't  possibly  conceive — unless  they  are 
as  bad  as  itself;  I  should  not  wonder.  That  new  theory  of  atrraction 
is  a  very  suspicious  circumstances  against  the  planets — there's  a  gang 


24  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WK    SKEM.  [ACT  II. 

of  'em  !  («  bunch  of  flowers  is  thrown  in  at  the  window)  Heaven  defend  me  ! 
There  it  is  again  !  This  is  the  filth  bunch  of  flowers  that's  been  thrown 
at  me  through  the  window — what  can  it  possibly  mean ? — the  mast 
alarming  circumstance,  (cautiously  poking  at  the  flowers  with  his  sword.) 

Mr.  Goodenough  Easy  (without,  l.).  Yes,  Barbara,  go  and  And  Mis- 
tress Lucy,  (ottering,  r.  d.)  How  d'ye  do,  my  Hearty  ? 

Sir  Geop.   U^h  !  hearty,  indeed  ! 

Easy.  Why,  what's  the  matter'/  what  are  you  poking  at  those  flowers 
for  1 — is  there  a  snake  in  them  ? 

Sir  Gbop.  Worse  than  that,  I  suspect !  Hem  !  Goodenough  Easy.  I 
believe  I  may  trust  you 

East.  You  trusted  me  once  with  five  thousands  pounds. 

Sir  Geof.  Dear,  dear,  1  forgot  that.     But  you  paid  me  back,  Easy  ? 

Easy  Of  course;  but  the  loan  saved  my  credit,  and  made  my  for- 
tune ;   so  the  favor's  the  same. 

Sir  Gkof.  Ugh!  Don't  say  that;  favors  and  perfidy  go  together! 
a  truth  1  learned  early  in  life.  What  favors  I  heaped  on  my  foster  bro- 
ther. And  did  not  he  conspire  with  my  cousin  to  set  my  own  father 
against  me,  and  trick  me  out  of  my  heritatje  1 

Easy.  But  you've  heaped  favors  as  great  on  the  son  of  that  scamp  of 
a  foster  brother ;  and  lie 

Sir  Geof.  Ay  !  but  he  don't  know  of  them.  And  then  there  was 
my — that  girls  mother 

Easy.  Ah!  that  was  an  affliction  which  might  well  turn  a  man,  pre- 
inclined  to  suspicion,  into  a  thorough  self-tormentor  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  But  she  loved  you  dearly  once,  old  friend  ;  and  were  she  yet  alive, 
anJ  could  be  proved  guiltless  after  all 

Sir  Geof.  Guiltless!   Sir? 

Easy.  Well — well!  we  agreed  never  to  talk  upon  that  subject.  Come, 
come,  what  of  the  nosegay  1 

Sir  Geof.  Yes,  yes,  the  nosegay!  Hark!  I  suspect  some  design  on 
my  life.  The  dog  howied  last  light.  When  I  waik  in  the  garden  some- 
body or  somethin«  (can't  see  what  it  is)  seems  at  the  watch  at  a  win- 
dow in  Deadman's  Lane — pleasant  name  for  a  street  at  the  back  of  one's 
premises  !  And  what  looks  blacker  than  all,  for  five  days  running,  has 
been  thrown  in  at  me,  yonder,  surreptitiously  and  anonymously,  what 
you  call — a  nosegay  ! 

Easy.  Ha,  ha!  you  lucky  dog! — you  are  still  not  baddooking.  De- 
pend on  it  the  flowers  come  from  a  woman. 

Sir  Geof.  A  woman  ! — my  worst  fears  are  confirmed !  In  the  small 
city  of  Placentia,  in  one  year,  there  were  no  less  than  seven  hundred 
cases  of  slow  poisoning,  and  all  by  woman.  Flowers  were  among  the 
instrument*  they  employed,  steeped  in  laurel  water  and  other  mephitic 
preparations.  Those  flowers  are  poisoned.  Not  a  doubt  of  it ! — how 
very  awful  ! 

Easy.  But  why  should  any  one  take  the  trouble  to  poison  you, 
Geoffrey  1 

Sin  Geof.  I  don't  know.  But  I  don't  know  why  seven  hundred 
people  in  oue  year  were  poisoned  in  Placentia.     Hodge !  Hodge ! 

Re-enter  Hodge. 

Sweep  away  those  flowers — lock  'em  up  with  the  rest  in  the  coal-hole. 
I  II  examine  them  all  chemically,  by  and  by,  with  precaution.  (Hodos 
picks  up  the  bunch  of  flowers)  Don't  smell  at  'em ;  and,  above  all,  don't  let 
the  house  dog  smell  at  'em.  [Exit  Hodge,  l.  d. 

Easy.  Ha!  ha! 


ACL'  II. J  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WH    SEEM.  25 

Sir  Geof.  (aside).  Ugh ! — that  brute's  laughing— no  more  feeling  than 
a  brick-bat.  (aloud)  Goodenough  Easy,  you  are  a  very  happy  man. 

Easy.   Happy,  yes.     I  could  be  happy  on  bread  and  water. 

Sir  Geof.  And  would  toast  your  bread  at  a  conflagration,  and  fill 
your  jug  from  a  deluge  !  Ugh  !  I've  a  trouble  you  are  more  likely  to 
feel  for,  as  you've  a  girl  of  your  own  to  keep  out  of  mischief.  A  man 
named  Wilmot,  and  styled  "my  Lord,"  lias  called  here  a  great  many 
times;  he  pretends  he  saved  my ahem  ! — that  is,  Lucy,  from  foot- 
pads, when  she  was  coming  home  from  your  house  in  a  sedan  chair. 
And  I  suspect  that  man  means  to  make  love  to  her  ! 

Easy.  Egad  !  that's  the  only  likely  suspicion  you've  hit  on  this  many 
a  day.  I've  heard  of  Lord  Wilmot.  Softhead  professes  to  copy  him. 
Softhead,  the  son  of  a  trader!  he  be  a  lounger  at  White's  and  Will's, 
and  dine  with  wits  and  fine  gentleman!  He  live  with  lords! — he 
injmic  fashion !  No  !  I've  respect  for  even  the  faults  of  a  man  ;  but 
I've  non  3  for  the  tricks  of  a  monkey. 

Sin  Geof.  Ugh  !  you're  so  savage  on  Softhead,  I  suspect  'tis  from 
envy.  Man  and  monkey,  indeed!  If  a  ribbon  is  tied  to  the  tail  of  a 
monkey,  it  is  not  the  man  it  enrages;  it  is  some  other  monkey  whose 
tail  has  no  ribbon  ! 

Easy  (angrily).  I  disdain  your  insinuations.  Do  you  mean  to  imply 
that  I  am  a  monkey  1  I  will  not  praise  myself;  but  at  least  a  more 
steady,  respectable,  sober 

Sir  Geof.  Ugh  !  sober  ! — 1  suspect  you'd  get  as  drunk  as  a  lord,  if  a 
lord  passed  the  bottle. 

Easy.  Now,  now,  now.     Take  care  ; — you'll  put  me  in  a  passion. 

Sir  Geof.  There — there — beg  pardon.  But  I  fear  you've  a  sneaking 
respect  for  a  lord. 

Easy.  Sir,  I  respect  the  British  Constitution  and  the  House  of  Peers 
as  a  part  of  it ;  but  as  for  a  lord  in  himself,  with  a  mere  handle  to  his 
name,  a  paltry  title  !  That  can  have  no  effect  on  a  Briton  of  indepen- 
dence and  sense.  And  that's  just  the  difference  between  Softhead  and 
me.  But  as  you  don't  like  for  a  son-in-law  the  real  fine  gentleman, 
perhaps  you've  a  mind  to  the  copy.  I  am  cure  you  are  welcome  to 
So  i'Lhead. 

Sir  Geof.  U^h !  I've  other  designs  for  the  girl. 

Easy.  Hcve  yon"?  What?  Perhaps  your  favorite,  young  Hard- 
man  1 — by  the  way,  I've  not  met  him  here  lately. 

Enter  Lucy  and  Barbara,  n.  d. 

Lucy.  0,  my  dear  father,  forgive  me  if  I  disturb  you ;  but  I  did  so 
long  to  see  you  ! 

Sir  Geof.  Why] 

Lucy.  Ah,  father,  is  it  so  strange  that  your  child 

Sir  Geof.  (interrupting  her).  Why  ? 

Lucy.  Because  Hodge  told  me  you'd  been  alarmed  last  night — the 
dog  howled!  But  it  was  full  moon  last  night,  and  he  will  howl  at  ihe 
moon ! 

Sir  Geof.  (aside).  How  did  she  know  it  was  full  moon  1  I  suspect  she 
was  looking  out  of  the  window 

Re-enter  Hodge. 

Hodge.  Lord  Wilmot  and  Mr.  Shadowly  Softhead.      [Exit  Hodge. 
Sir  Geof.  (aside).  Wilmot!    my   suspicions    are   confirmed;  she  teas 


26  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    \YB    Sl'EM.  [ACT  II. 

looking  out,  of  tlie  window !     This  comes  of  Shakespeare  having  written 
that  infernal  incendiary  trash  about  Romeo  and  Juliet  ! 

Enter  Wilmot  and  Softhead,  l.  d. 

Wil.  Your  servant,  ladies; — Sir  Geoffrey,  your  servant.  I  could  not 
refuse  Mr.  Softhead's  request  to  inquire  after  your  health. 

Sir  Qeof.  I  thank  your  Lordship;  but  when  my  health  want's  inquir- 
ing after  I  send  for  the  doctor. 

Wil    Is  it  possible  you  can  do  anything  so  dangerous  and  rash  7 

Sir  Geof    How  1 — how  ] 

Wil.  Send  for  the  very  man  who  has  an  interest  in  your  being  ill  ! 

Sir  Geof.  {aside).  That's  very  true.  I  did  not  think  hd  had  so  much 
sense  in  him  !  (Sir  Geoffrey  and  Easy  retire  up  the  stage.) 

Wil.  I  need  not  inquire  how  you  are,  ladies.  When  Hebe  retired 
from  the  world,  she  divided  her  bloom  between  you.  Mistress  Barbara, 
vouchsafe  me  the  honor  a  queen  accords  to  the  meanest  of  her  gentle- 
men, {kisses  Barbara's  hand,  find  lends  her  aside,  conversing  in  dumb  shun-.) 

Soft.  Ah,  Mistress  Lucy,  vouchsafe  me  the  honor  which — (aside)  But 
she  don't  hold  her  hand  in  the  same  position. 

Easy  (advancing  and  patting  him  on  the  shoulder).  Bravo! — bravo! 
Master  Softhead  ! — Encore  ! 

Soft.   Bravo! — Encore!     I  don't  understand  you,  Mr.  Easy. 

Easy.  That  bow  of  yours  !  Perfect.  Plain  to  see  you  have  not  for- 
gotten the  old  dancing  master  in  Crooked  Lane. 

Soft,  (aside).  I'm  not  an  inconstant  man  ;  but  I'll  show  that  city  fel- 
low there  are  other  ladies  in  town  besides  his  daughter,  (aloud)  Dimi- 
duin  niece,  how  pretty  you  are,  Mistress  Lucy  !  [walks  aside  with  her.) 

Sir  Giof.  That  popinjay  of  a  lord  is  more  attentive  to  Barbara  than 
ever  he  was  to  the  other. 

Easy.  Hey  !  hey  !     D'ye  think  so  1 

Siu  Geof.  I  suspect  he  has  heard  how  rich  you  are.  (Wilmot  and 
Barbara  approach.) 

Bar.  Papa,  Lord  Wilmot  bees  to  be  presented  to  you.  (botes  inter- 
changed. Wilmot  offers  snuff-box.  Easy  at  first  declines  then  accep  s — 
sneezes  violently  ;  unused  to  snuff ) 

Sir  Geof  He!  he!  quite  clear!  titled  fortune-hunter.  Over  head 
and  ears  in  debt,  I  dare  say.  (takes  Wilmot  aside)  Prettv  girl,  Mistress 
Barbara !     Eh  7 

Wil.  Pretty  !     Say  beautiful ! 

Sir  Geof.  He!  he!  Her  father  will  give  her  fifty  thousand  pounds 
down  on  the  wedding  day. 

Wil.  I  venerate  the  British  merchant  who  can  give  his  daughter  fifty 
thousand  pounds !  What  a  smile  she  has  !  (hooking  his  arm  into  Sir 
Geoffrey's)  1  say.  Sir  Geoffrey,  you  see  I'm  very  shy — bashful,  indeed 
— and  Mr.  Easy  is  watching  every  word  I  say  to  his  daughter;  so  em- 
barrassing !     Couldn't  you  get  him  out  of  the  room  7 

Sir  Geof.  Mighty  bashful,  indeed!  Turn  the  oldest  friend  I  have 
out  of  my  room,  in  order  that  you  may  make  love  to  his  daughter  ! 
(turns  aivay.) 

Wil.  (to  Easy).  I  say,  Mr.  Easy.  My  double  there,  Softhead,  is  so 
shy — bashful,  indeed — and  that  suspicious  Sir  Geoffrey  is  watching 
every  word  he  says  to  Mistress  Lucy ;  so  embarrassing !  Do  get  your 
friend  out  of  the  room,  will  you  1 

Easy.  Ha  !  ha  I  Certainly,  my  Lord,  (aside)  I  see  he  wants  to  be  alone 
with  my  Barbara.  What  will  they  say  in  Lombard  street  when  she's  my 
lady  1     Shouldn't  wonder  if  they  returned  me  M.P.  for  the  city,  {aloud) 


ACT  II.]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    AVE    SEEM.  27 

Come    inlo    the    next    room,  Geoffrey,    and   tell    me   your   designs   for 
Lucy. 

Sin  Geop.  Ob,  very  well  !  You  wish  to  encourage  that  pampered 
young — satrap  !  (aside)  How  he  does  love  a  lord,  and  hoiv  a  lord  does 
love  fifty  thousand  pounds  !     He!  he! 

[Exeunt  Sir  Gkoffrey  and  Easy,  e.  d- 

Wil.  [running  to  Lucy  and  pushing  aside  Softhead).  Return  to  your 
native  allegiance.  Truce  with  the  enemy  and  exchange  of  prisoners. 
(leadi  Lijcat  aside — she  rather  grace  and  reluctant.') 

Bar.  So  you'll  not  speak  to  me,  Mr.  Softhead  ;  words  are  too  rare 
with  you  fine  gentlemen  to  throw  away  upon  old  friends. 

Soft.  Ahem  ! 

Bar.  You  don't  remember  the  winter  evenings  you  used  to  pass  at 
our  fireside  ]  nor  the  mistletoe  bough  at  Christmas  1  nor  the  pleasant 
games  at  Blindman's  Buff  and  Hunt  the  Slipper  1  nor  the  strong  tea  I 
made  you  when  you  had  the  migraine's  Nor  how  I  preveuted  your 
eating  Banbury  cake  at  supper,  when  you  know  it  always  disagrees  with 
you  1  But  I  suppose  you  are  so  hardened  that  you  can  eat  Banbury 
cake  every  night  now  !     I'm  sure  'tis  nothing  to  me  ! 

Soft.  Those  recollections  of  one's  early  innocence  are  very  melting  ! 
One  renounces  a  great  deal  of  happiness  for  renown  and  ambition.  Bar- 
bara ! 

Bar.   Sbadowly  ! 

Soft.  However  one  may  rise  in  life — however  the  fashion  may  compel 
one  to  be  a  monster 

Bar.  A  monster ! 

Soft.  Yes,  Fred  and  I  are  both  monsters  !  Still — still — still — 'Ecod, 
I  do  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  that's  the  truth  of  it. 

Wilmot  and  Lucy  advancing. 

Luca\  A  friend  of  my  lost  mother's.  Oh  !  ye-,  dear  Lord  Wilmot,  do 
see  her  again- — learn  what  she  has  to  say.  There  are  times  when  1  so 
long  to  speak  of  that — my  mother ;  but  my  father  shuns  even  to  men- 
tion her  name.     Ah,  he  must  have  loved  her  well! 

Wil  What  genuine  susceptibility  !  I  have  found  AvhatI  have  sought  all 
my  life,  the  union  of  womanly  feeling  and  childlike  innocence,  (attempts 
to  take  her  hand ;  Lucat  withdraws  it  coyly)  Nay,  nay,  if  the  renunciation 
of  all  youthful  levities  and  follies,  if  the  most  steadfast  adherence  to 
your  side — despite  all  the  chances  of  life,  all  temptations,  all  dangers — 
(Hardman's  voice  without,  l.) 

Bar.  Hist !  some  one  coming. 

Wil.  Change  partners  ;  hands  across.  (Wilmot  joins  Barbara,  Soft- 
head joins  Lucy)  My  angel  Barbara! 

Enter  Hardmak,  l.  d. 

Hard,  (aside,  astonished).  Lord  Wilmot  here  ! 

Wil.  (aside  to  Ba-rb\d.a).  What!  does  he  know  Sir  Geoffrey  ? 

Bar.  Oh,  yes.     Sir  Geoffrey  thinks  there's  nob>dy  like  him. 

Wil.  (aloud).  Well  met,  my  dear  Hardman.  So  you  are  intimate 
here  1 

Hard.  Ay  ;  and  you  1 

Wil.  An  acquaintance  in  its  cradle.  Droll  man,  Sir  Geoffrey  ;  I  de- 
light in  odd  characters.  Besides,  here  are  other  attractions,  (returning 
to  Barbara.) 

Hard,  (aside).  If  he  be  my  rival !     Hum !     I  hear  from  David  Falleu 


28  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    "WE    SEEM.  [ACT  III. 

that  his  father's  on  the  brink  of  high  treason  !  That  secret  gives  a  hold 
on  the  son.  (joins  Lucy.) 

Wil.  (to  Barbara).  You  understand  ;  'tis  a  compact.  You  will  favor 
my  stratagem  ? 

Bar.  Yes ;  and  you'll  engage  to  cure  Softhead  of  his  taste  for  the 
fashion,  and  send  him  back  to — the  city. 

Wil.  Since  you  live  in  the  city,  and  condescend  to  regard  such  a 
monster  ! 

Bah.  Why,  we  were  brought  up  together.  His  health  is  so  delicate; 
I  should  like  to  take  care  of  him.  Heigho  !  I  am  afraid  'tis  too  late, 
and  papa  will  never  forgive  his  past  follies. 

Wil.  Yet  papa  seems  very  good-natured.  Perhaps  there's  another 
side  to  his  character  ? 

Bar.  Oh,  yes  !  He  is  such  a  very  independent  man,  my  papa  !  and 
has  such  a  contempt  for  people  who  go  out  of  their  own  rank,  and  make 
fools  of  themselves  for  the  sake  of  example. 

Wil.  Never  fear;  I'll  ask  him  to  dine,  and  open  his  heart  with  a 
cheerful  glass. 

Bar  Cheerful  glass  !  You  don't  know  papa — the  soberest  man  !  If 
there's  anything  on  which  he's  severe,  'tis  a  cheerful  glass. 

Wil.  So   so  !  does  not  he  ever — get  a  little  excited  ? 

Bar.  Excited  !  Don't  think  of  it !  Besides,  he  is  so  in  awe  of  Sir 
Geoffrey,  who  would  tease  him  out  of  his  life,  if  he  could  but  hear  that 
papa  was  so  inconsistent  as  to — as  to 

Wil.  As  to  get — a  little  excited  1  (aside)  These  hints  should  suffice 
me !  'Gad.  if  I  could  make  him  tipsy  for  once  in  a  way  !  I'll  try. 
(cloud)  Adieu,  my  sweet  Barbara,  and  rely  on  the  zeal  of  your  faithful 
ally.  Slay  !  tell  Mr.  Easy  that  he  must  lounge  into  Will's.  I  will  look 
out  for  him  there  in  about  a  couple  of  hours.  He'll  meet  many  friends 
from  the  city,  and  all  the  wits  and  fine  gentlemen.  Aliens!  Vive  la 
joe  !  Softhead,  we'll  have  a  night  of  it ! 

Soft.  Ah  !  those  were  pleasant  nights  when  one  went  to  bed  at  half 
after  ten.  Heigho  !  (as  Hardman  hisses  Lucy's  hand,  Wilmot  gayly  kisses 
Barbara's — Hardman  observes  him  with  a  little  suspicion — Wilmot  returns 
his  look  lightly  and  carelessly — Lucy  and  Barbara  conscious 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. —  Wilts  Coffee  Hoiae ;  occupying  the  depth  of  the  stage.  Jacob 
Tonson  and  various  groups  ;  some  sealed  in  boxes,  some  standing.  In  the 
half-open  box  at  the  side,  r.,  David  Fallen,  seated  writing. 

Enter  Easy,  c.  d.  l.,  speaking  to  various  acquaintances  as  he  passes  round. 

Easy.  How  d'ye  do  1  Have  you  seen  my  Lord  Wilmot  ?  Good  day. 
Yes  ;  I  seldom  come  here  ;  but  I've  promised  to  meet  an  intimate  friend 
of  mine — Lord  Wilmot.  Servant,  sir  ! — looking  for  my  friend  Wilmot. 
Oh  !  not  come  yet ! — hum — ha  ! — charming  young  man,  Wilmot  ;  head 
of  the  mode  ;  generous,  but  prudent.  I  know  all  his  affairs,  (mixes  with 
the  group,  conversing  with  Toxson,  etc.) 

Enter  Newsman,  c.  d.,  ivith  papers. 

Newsman.  Great  news  !  great  news  !    Suspected  Jacobite  Plot !   Fears 


ACT  III.]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM.  29 

of  Ministers  !  Army  to  be  increased  !  Great  news!  (Coffee-house  frequent- 
ers gather  round  Newsman — take  papers — form  themselvis  into  fresh  groups 
about  the  stage.) 

Enter  Hardman,  l.  2  e. 

Hard  I  have  sent  off  my  letter  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole.  This  place, 
h^  must  give  it;  the  first  favor  I  have  asked.  Hope  smiles  ;  lam  an 
peace  with  all  men.  Now  to  save  Wilmot's  father,  (approaches  the  box 
at  which  David  Fallen  is  writing,  and  stoops  down,  as  if  arranging  his 
buckle;  to  Fallen)  Hist,!  Whatever  the  secret,  remember,  not  a  word 
save  to  me.  (  passes  up  the  stage,  and  is  eagerly  greeted  bg  various  frequenters 
of  the  Coffee  house.) 

Enter  Lord  Loftus,  c.  D.  l.,  and  advances  to  the  half  open  box,  L. 

Lord  Loftus.  Drawer,  1  engage  this  box  ;  give  me  the  newspaper. 
S  i — '•  Rumored  Jacobite  Plot.  ' 

The  Duke  of  Middlesex  enters   c.  d   l.,  and  proceeds  to  join  Loftus. 

Duke.  My  dear  Lord,  I  obey  your  appointment.  But  is  not  the  place 
you  select  rather  strange  1 

Lof.  Be  seated,  I  pray  you.  No  place  so  fit  for  our  purpose.  First, 
because  its  very  publicity  prevents  all  suspicion.  We  come  to  a  coffee- 
house, where  all  ranks  and  all  parties  assemble,  to  hear  the  news,  like 
the  rest.  And,  secondly,  we  could  scarcely  meet  our  agent  anywhere 
else.  He  is  a  Tory  pamphleteer ;  was  imprisoned  for  our  sake  in  the 
time  of  William  and  Mary.  If  we,  so  well  known  to  be  Tories,  are  seen 
to  confer  with  him  here,  'twill  only  be  thought  that  we  are  suggesting 
some  points  in  a  pamphlet.     May  1  beckon  our  agent? 

Duke.  Certainly.  He  risks  his  life  for  us  ;  he  shall  be  duly  rewarded. 
Let  him  sit  by  our  side.  (Lord  Loftus  motions  to  David  Fallen,  who 
takes  his  pamphht  and  approaches  open' y)  I  have  certainly  seen  somewhere 
before  that  very  thin  man.  Be  seated,  sir.  Honorable  danger  makes 
ail  men  equal. 

Fal.  No,  my  Lord  Duke.  I  know  you  not.  It  is  the  Earl  I  confer 
with,   (aside)  I  never  stood  in  his  hall,  with  lackeys  and  porters. 

Duke  (to  Loftus).  Powers  above!  That  scare-crow  rejects  my  ac- 
quaintance !     Portentous  !   (stunned  end  astonished.) 

Lof.  Obscve  Duke,  we  speak  in  a  sort  of  jargon.  Pamphlet  means 
messenger,  (to  Fallen  aloud)  Weil,  Mr.  Fallen,  when  will  the  pamph- 
let he  ready  ? 

Fal.   (aloud).  To-morrow,  my  Lord,  exactly  at  one  o'clock. 

Duke  (still  bewildered).   I  don't  understand 

Lof.  (aside).  Hush  !  Walpole  laughs  at  pamphlets,  but  would  hang 
messengers,  (aloud)  To-morrow,  not  to-day  !     Well,  m<>re  time  for 

Fal.  Subscribers.  Thank  you,  my  Lord,  (whispering)  Where  shall 
the  messenger  meet  you  ? 

Lof.  At  the  back  of  the  Duke's  new  house  there  is  a  quiet,  lone 
place 

Fal.  ( whispering).  By  the  old  mill  near  the  Thames  1  I  know  it.  The 
messenger  shall  be  there.  The  signal  word  "  Marston  Moor."  No  con- 
versation should  pass.  But  who  brings  the  packet]  That's  the  first 
step  of  danger. 

Duke  (suddenly  rousirg  himself,  and  with  dignity).  Then  'tis  mine,  sir, 
in  right  of  my  birth. 

Fal.  (aloud).  I'll  attend   to  all   your  Lordship's  suggestions  ;  they're 


SO  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WK    SEEM.  [ACT  III. 

excellent,  and  will  starile  this  vile  administration.  Many  tbanka  to  your 
Lordship,  (returns  to  his  table  and  resumes  his  writing.  Groups  point  and 
murmur,     Jacob  Tonson  and  Easy  advance.  | 

East.  That  pestilence  scribbler,  David  Fallen  !  Another  libellous 
pamphlet  as  bitter  as  the  last,  I'll  swear. 

Ton  Bitter  as  gall,  sir,  I  am  proud  to  say.  Your  servant,  Jacob 
Tonson,  the  "bookseller — -at  your  service.  I  advanced  a  pound  upon  it. 
[they  continue  talking  an  '  mingle  with  the  others) 

Duke  (to  Loftds)  I  will  meet  yon  in  the  Mall  to-morrow,  a  quarter 
:  f'tc-r  one  precisely.  We  may  go  now?  {they  rise  and  go  towards  c.  D., 
Loftus  in  front)  Powers  above — his  mind's  distracted — he  walks  out  be- 
fore me ! 

Lof.   [drawing  back  at  the  door).  I  follow  you  Duke. 

Doke.  My*  dear  friend — if  you  really  insist  on  it. 

[Exeunt,  c.  D.  L.,  bowing. 

Dkawer  enters,  R.  d  ,  with  wine,  etc.,  which  he  places  on  the  table,  b. 

Hard.  Let  me  offer  you  a  glass  of  wine,  Mr.  Fallen,  (aside  to  him) 
Well  7  (sits  urn,-  Fallen.  F  all  EN,  who  has  been  writing ,  pushes  the  paper 
towards  him.) 

Bard,  (reading).  "At  one  to-morrow — by  the  old  mill  near  the 
Thames  -Marston  Moor — the  Duke  in  person."  So!  We  must  save 
these  men.     I  will  call  on  you  in  the  morning,  and  concert  the  means. 

Fal.  Yes;  save,  Dot  destroy,  these  enthusiasts.  I'm  resigned  to  the 
name  of  hireling — not  to  that  of  a  butcher  ! 

Hard.  You  serve  both  Whig  and  Jacobite;  do  you  care  then  for 
either? 

I  al.  Sneering  politician  !  what  has  either  cared  for  me?  I  entered 
the  world,  devoted  heart  and  soul  to  two  causes — the  throne  of  the 
Stuart,  the  glory  of  Letters.  I  saw  them  both  as  a  poet.  My  father 
left  ine  no  heritage  but  loyalty  and  learning.  Charles  the  Second  praised 
my  verse,  and  I  starved  ;  3  imps  the  Second  praised  my  prose,  and  I 
starved;  therein  of  King  William  —  I  passed  that  in  prison. 

Hard.  But  the  ministers  of  Anne  were  gracious  to  writers. 

Fal.  And  offered  me  a  pension  to  belie  my  past  life,  and  write  Odes 
on  the  Queen  who  had  dethroned  her  own  father.  I  was  not  then  dis- 
enchanted— I  refused.  That's  years  ago.  If  I  starved,  I  had  fame. 
Now  came  my  worst  foes,  my  own  fellow  writers.  What  is  fame  but  a 
fashion?  A  jest  upon  Grub  Street,  a  rhyme  from  young  Pope,  could 
jeer  a  score  of  gray  laborers  like  me  out  of  their  last  consolation.  Time 
and  hunger  tame  all.  1  could  still  starve  myself;  I  have  six  children  at 
borne — they  must  live. 

Hard,  (aside).  This  man  has  genius — he  might  have  been  a  grace  to 
his  age.     I'm  perplexed,  (alonl)  Sir  Robert 

Fal.  Disdains  letters — I've  renounced  them.  He  pays  services  like 
these.     Well,  I  serve  him.     Leave  me  ;  20  ! 

Hard,  (rising,  aside).  Not  so  bad  as  he  seems —another  side  to  the 
character. 

Enter  Drawer,  l.  d.,  with  a  letter  to  Hardmax. 

Hard,  (aside).  From  Walpole !  Now  then!  my  fate — my  love — my 
fortunes  ! 

East,  (peeping  over  Hardman's  shoulder).  He  has  got  a  letter  from 
the  Prime  Minister,  marked  "private  and  confidential."  (great  agitation) 
After  all,  he  is  a  very  clever  fellow.  (Coffee-house  frequenters  evince  the 
readiest  assent,  and  the  liveliest  admiration.) 


ACT  III. J  KOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM.  31 

Hakd.  (advancing  and  reading  the  letter).  "  My  clear  Hardrnan, — Ex- 
tremely sorry.  Place  in  question  absolutely  wanted  to  conciliate  some 
noble  family  otherwise  dangerous.*  Another  time,  more  fortunate. 
Full}'  sensible  of  your  valuable  service. — Robekt  Walpole." — Refused  ! 
Let  him  look  to  himself!  I  will — I  will — alas!  he  is  needed  by  my 
country  ;  and  I  am  powerless  against  him.  (seats  himself.) 

Enter  Wilmot  and  Softhead,  c.  d.  l. 

Wil.  Drawer  !  a  private  room — covers  for  six — dinner  in  an  hour  !f 
And — drawer  !  Tell  Mr.  Tonson  not  to  go  yet.  Softhead,  we'll  have  an 
orgie  to-night,  worthy  the  days  of  King  Charles  the  Second.  Softhead, 
let  me  present  you  to  our  boon  companions — my  friend,  Lord  Stron»- 
bow  (hardest  in  drinker  England);  Sir  John  Bruin,  best  boxer  in  England 
— threshed  Figs  ;  quarrelsome  but  pleasant ;  Colonel  Flint — finest  aen- 
tleman  in  England  and,  out  and  out,  the  best  fencer  ;  mild  as  a  lamb, 
but  can't  bear  contradiction,  and  on  the  point  of  honor,  inexorable. 
Now  for  the  sixth.  Ha,  Mr.  Easy  !  (I  ask  him  to  serve  you)  Easy,  your 
hand  !  So  charmed  that  you've  come.  You'll  dine  wit!)  us — give  up 
five  invitations  on  purpose.     Do — sans  ciremonie. 

Easy.  Why,  really,  my  Lord,  a  plain,  sober  man  like  me  would  be  out 
of  place 

Wil.  If  that's  all,  never  fear.  Live  with  us,  and  we'll  make  another 
man  of  you,  Easy. 

Easy.  What  captivating  familiarity  !  Well,  I  cannot  resist  your  Lord- 
ship, (strutting  down  the  room,  and  speaking  to  his  acquaintances)  Yes,  my 
friend  Wilmot — Lord  Wilmot — will  make  ma  dine  with  him  Pleasant 
man,  my  friend  Wilmot.  We  dine  together  to-day.  (S  fthead  retires  to 
the  background  with  the  other  invited  guests  ;  but  truing  hard  to  escape  Sir 
John  Bruin,  the  boxer,  and  Colonel  Flint,  the  fencer,  fas' ens  himself  on 
Easy  with  an  air  of  patronage.) 

Wil.  (aside).  Now  to  serve  the  dear  Duke,  (aloud)  You  have  not  yet 
bought  the  Memoir  of  a  late  Man  of  Quality. 

Ton.  Not  yet,  my  Lord  ;  just  been  trying  ;  hard  work,  (wipes  his  fore- 
head) But  the  persim  who  has  it  is  luckily  very  poor  !  one  of  my  own 
authors. 

Wil.  (aside).  His  eye  turns  to  that  forlorn-looking  spectre  I  saw  him 
tormenting,  (aloud  )  That  must  be  one  of  your  authors  ;  he  look  so  lean, 
Mr.  Tonsou. 

Ton.  Hush;  that's  the  man  !   made  a  noise  in  his  day  ;  David  Fallen. 

Wil.  David  Fallen,  whose  books,  when  I.  was  but  a  schoolboy,  made 
me  first  take  to  reading — not  as  task-work,  but  pleasure.  How  much  I 
do  owe  him  !  (bows  very  low  to  Mr.  Fallen.) 

Ton.  My  Lord  bows  very  low  !  Oh,  if  your  Lordship  knows  Mr. 
Fallen,  pray  tell  him  not  to  stand  in  his  own  light.  I  would  give  him  a 
vast  sum  for  the  memoir — two  hundred  guineas ;  on  my  honor  I  would  ! 
(whispering)  Scandal,  my  Lord ;  sell  like  wild-fire. — I  say,  Mr  Hard- 
man,  I  observed  you  speak  to  poor  David.  Can't  you  help  me  here  ! 
(whispering)  Lord  Henry  de  Mowbray's  Private  Memoirs!  Fallen  has 
them,  and  refuses  to  sell.     Love  Adventures;  nuts  for  the  public.     Only 

*  As  Walpole  was  little  inclined  to  make  it  a  part  of  his  policy  to  conciliate  those 
whose  opposition  miuht  be  dangerous,  while  he  was  so  fond  of  power  as  to  be  jeal- 
ous ot  talent  not  wholly  subservient  to  him,  the  reluctance  to  promote  Mr.  H-ird- 
mm,  implied  in  the  insincerity  of  his  excuse,  may  be  supposed  to  arise  from  his 
knowledge  of  that  gentleman's  restless  ambition  and  determined  self-will. 

t  It  was  not  the  custom  at  Will's  to  serve  dinners ;  and  the  exception  in  favor  of 
my  "Lord  Wilmot  proves  his  influence  as  a  man  a  la  mode. 


32  NOT    SO    BAD    A3    WE    SEEM.  [ACT  III. 

just  got  a  peep  myself.     But  such  a  confession  about  the  beautiful  Lady 
Morland. 

Hard.  Harm  Lady  Morland  ! 

Ton  Besides — shows  up  bis  own  brother!  Jacobite  family  secrets. 
Such  a  card  for  the  Whigs  ! 

Hard.  Confound  the  Whigs!     What  do  I  care  1 

Wil.    I'll  see  to  it,  Tonson.     Give  me  Mr.  Fallen's  private  address. 

Ton.  But  pray  be  discreet,  my  Lord.  If  that  knave  Curll  should  get 
wind  of  the  scent,  he'd  try  to  spoil  my  market  with  my  own  author. 
The  villain! 

Wil.  (aside).  Curll  1  Why,  I  have  mimick'd  Curll  so  exactly  that  Pope 
himself  was  deceived,  and.  stifling  with  rase,  ordered  me  out  of  the 
room  1  have  it!  Mr.  Curll  shall  call  upon  Fallen  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning,  and  outbid  Mr  Tonson.  [aloud)  Thank  you.  sir.  (taking  the 
address)  Moody,  llardman  1  som*  problem  in  political  ethics  ?  Fouturn 
away  — you  have  a  grief  you  II  not  tell  me — why,  this  morning  I  asked 
you  a  favor;  from  that  moment  I  had  a  right  to  your  confidence,  for  a 
favor  degrades  when  it  does  not  come  from  a  friend. 

Hard.  You  charm,  you  subdue  me,  and  I  feel  for  once  how  neces- 
sary to  a  man  is  the  sympathy  of  another.  Your  hand,  Wilmot.  This 
is  secret — I,  too,  then  presume  to  love.  One  above  ine  in  fortune  ;  it  may 
be  in  birth.  Bui  a  free  state  lilts  those  it  employs  to  a  par  with  its 
nobles.  A  post  in  the  Treasury  of  such  nature  is  vacant ;  1  have  served 
the  minister  men  say,  with  some  credit;  and  1  asked  for  the  gift  with- 
out shame — 'twas  my  due.  Walpole  needs  the  office,  not  for  reward  to 
the  zealous,  but  for  bribe  to  the  doubtful.  See,  (giving  letter)  "Noble 
family  to  conciliate."     Ah,  the  drones  have  the  honey  ! 

Wil.  (re  "ling  and  returning  the  letter).  And  had  you  this  post,  you  think 
you  could  sain  the  lady  you  love  1 

Hard.  At  least  it  would  have  given  me  courage  to  ask.  Well,  well, 
well, — a»truce  with  my  egotism, — you  at  least,  my  fair  Wilmot,  fair  in 
form,  fair  in  fortune,  you  need  fear  no  rebuil  where  you  place  your 
affections, 

Wil  Why,  the  lady's  father  sees  only  demerits  in  what  you  think  my 
advantages. 

Hard.  You  mistake,  I  know  the  man  much  better  than  you  do  ;  and 
look,  even  now  he  is  gazing  upon  you  as  fondly  as  it  on  the  coronet  that 
shall  blazon  the  coach  of  my  lady,  his  daughter. 

Wil.  Gazing  on  me? — where  1 

Hard.   Yonder — Ha!  is  it  not  Mr.   Easy,  whose 

Wil  Mr.  Easy  !  you  too  taken  in  !  Hark,  secret  for  secret — 'tis 
Lucy  Thornside  I  love, 

Hard.   You — stun  me! 

Wil  But  what  a  despot  love  is,  allows  no  thought  not  its  slave! 
They  told  me  below  that  my  father  had  been  here  ;  have  you  seen  him  ? 

Hard.  Ay. 

Wil.  And  sounded  ? 

IIakd.  No — belter  than  that — 1  have  taken  precautions.  I  must  leave 
you  now  ;  you  shall  know  the  result  to-morrow  afternoon,  (aside)  Your 
father's  life  in  these  hands — his  ransom  what  I  please  to  demand. — Ah, 
joy  !  I  am  myself  once  again.  Fool  to  think  man  could  be  my  friend  ! 
Ah,  joy  !  born  but  for  the  strife  and  the  struggle,  it  is  only  'mid  foes  that 
ray  invention  is  quickened!  Half-way  to  my  triumph,  now  that  I  know 
the  rival  to  vanquish  !  (to  Fallen)  Engage  the  messenger  at  one,  for- 
get not.  Nothing  else  till  I  see  you  (to  Wilmot)  Your  hand  once 
again.     To-day  I'm  your  envoy  ;  (aside)  to-morrow  your  master. 

[Exit,  c.  D.  l.     Fallen  folds  up  papers  and  exits,  c.  d.  l. 


ACT  III.]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEJT.  33 

Wil.  The  friendliest  man  that  ever  lived  since  the  days  of  Damon  and 
Pythias:  I'm  a  brule  if  1  don't  serve  him  in  return.  To  lose  the  woman 
he  loves  for  want  of  this  pitiful  place.  Saint  Cupid  forbid  !  Let  me 
consider!  Many  sides  to  a  character — I  think  I  could  here  hittheri?ht 
oue  better  than  Hardman.  Ha!  ha!  Excellent!  My  Murillo !  I'll 
not  sell  myself,  but  I'll  buy  ihe  Prime  Minister  !  Excuse  me,  my 
friends ;  urgent  business ;  I  shall  be  back  ere  the  dinner  hour ;  the 
room  is  prepared.  Drawer,  show  in  these  gentlemen  ;  Hardman  shall 
have  his  place  and  his  wife,  and  I'll  bribe  the  arch-briber!  Ho!  my 
lackeys,  my  coach,  there!  Ha,  ha  !  bribe  the  Prime  Minister!  There 
never  was  such  a  fellow  as  I  am  for  crime  and  audacity. 

[Exit  Wilmot,  c.  D.  L. 

Col.  Flint.  Your  arm,  Mr.  Softhead. 

Soft.  And  Fred  leaves  me  in  the  very  paws  of  this  tiger! 
[Exeunt,  c.  d.  l.,  as  the  scene  closes  in.  the  loungers  making  way  for  them.      , 

SCENE  II. — The  Library  in  Sir  Geoffrey's  house. 

Enter  Sir  Geoffrey,  l.  1  e. 

Sie  Geof.  I'm  followed!  I'm  dogged  !  I  go  out  for  a  walk  unsuspi- 
ciously ;  and  behind  creeps  a  step,  pit,  pat ;  feline  and  stealthy  ;  I  turn, 
not  a  soul  to  be  seen — I  walk  on  ;  pit,  pat,  stealthy  and  feline  !  turn 
again  ;  and  lo  !  a  dark  form  like  a  phantom,  muffled  and  masked — just 
seen  and  just  gone.  Ouf !  The  plot  thickens  arouud  me — I  can  struggle 
no  more,  (sinks  into  seat,  r.) 

Enter  Lucy,  l.  1  e. 

Who  is  there  1 

Lucy.  But  your  child,  my  dear  father. 

Sik  Ge«'F.  Child,  ugh!  what  do  you  want] 

Lucy.  Ah,  speak  to  me  gently.     It  is  your  heart  that  I  want: 

Sir  Geof.  Heart — I  suspect  I'm  to  be  coaxed  out  of  something! 
Eh;  e!i !     Why  she's  weeping.     What  ails  thee,  poor  darling  1  (rises.) 

Lucy.  So  kind.  Now  1  have  courage  to  tell  you.  I  was  sitting  alone, 
and  I  thought  to  myself — "  mv  father  often  doubts  of  me — doubts  of 
all " 

Sir  Geof.  Ugh — what  now] 

Lucy.  "  Yet  his  true  nature  is  generous — it  could  not  always  have 
been  so.  Perhaps  in  old  times  he  has  been  deceived  where  he  loved. 
Ah,  his  Lucy,  at  least,  shall  never  deceive  him."  So  I  rose  and  lis- 
tened for  your  footstep — I  heard  it — and  I  am  here — here,  on  your 
bosom,  my  own  father  ! 

Sir  Geof.  You'll  never  deceive  me — right,  right — go  on,  pretty  one, 
go  on.  (aside)  If  she  should  be  my  child  after  all ! 

Lucy.  There  is  one  who  has  come  here  lately — one  who  appears  to 
displease  you — one  whom  you've  been  led  to  believe  comes  not  on  my 
account,  but  my  friend's.  It  is  not  so,  my  father ;  it  is  for  me  that  he 
comes.  Let  him  come  no  more — let  me  see  him  no  more — for — for — I 
feel  that  his  presence  might  make  me  loo  happy — and  that  would  grieve 
you,  0  my  father  !  (Lady  Ellixor  appears  at  the  window  watching. \ 

Sir  Geof.  (aside).  She  must  be  my  child!  Bless  her!  (aloud)  I'll 
never  doubt  you  again.  I'll  bite  out  my  tongue  if  it  says  a  harsh  word 
to  you.  I'm  not  so  bad  as  I  seem.  Grieve  me  ? — yes,  it  would  break 
my  heart.  You  don't  know  these  gay  courtiers — I  do  ! — tut — tut — tut 
— don't  cry.     How  can  I  console  her  1 

Lucy.  Shall  I  say  1 — let  me  speak  to  you  of  my  mother. 


34  NOT    SO    BAD   AS    AVE    SEEM.  [ACT  III. 

Sir  Geof.  {recoiling).  Ah! 

Lucy.  Would  it  not  soothe  you  to  hear  that  a  friend  of  hers  was  iu 
London,  who 

Sat  Geof.  {changing  in  his  tvholc  deportment).  I  forbid  you  to  speak  to 
me  of  your  mother — she  dishonored  me 

Lady  E.   [in  a  low  voice  of  emotion).   It  is  false  !  {she  disappears,  r.) 

Sir  Geof.  {starting).  Did  you  say  "false V 

Lucy  {sobbing).  No — no — but  my  heart  said  it ! 

Sir  Geof.   Strange  !  or  was  it  but  my  own  fancy  7 

Lucy.  Oh,  father,  father!  How  I  shall  pity  you  if  you  discover  that 
your  suspicions  erred.  And  again  I  say  — I  feel — feel  in  my  heart  of 
woman — that  the  mother  of  the  child  who  so  loves  and  honors  you  was 
innocent. 

Hardmax  {without,  l.).  Is  Sir  Geoffrey  at  home  7 

Lucy  starts  up  and  exits,  r.  1  e.     Twilight ;  during  the  preceding  dialogue 
the  stage  has  gradually  darkened.     Enter  Hardman,  l.  1  e. 

Hard.  Sir  Geoffrey,  you  were  deceived  ;  Lord  Wilmot  has  no  thought 
of  Mr.  Easy's  daughter. 

Sir  Geof.  I  know  that — Lucy  has  told  me  all,  and  begged  me  not  to 
let  him  come  here  again. 

Hard,  (joyfullg).  She  has !  Then  she  does  not  love  this  Lord  Wil- 
mot 7  But  still  be  on  your  guard  against  him.  Remember  the  arts  of 
corruption — the  emissary— the  letter — the  go-between — the  spy  ! 

Sir  Geoff.  Arts!  Spy!  Ha!  if  Easy  was  right  after  all.  If  those 
flowers  thrown  in  at  the  window ;  the  watch  from  that  house  in  the  lane ; 
the  masked  figure  that  followed  me;  all  bode  designs  but  on  Lucy 

Hard.  Flowers  have  been  thrown  in  at  the  window  7  You've  been 
watched 7  A  masked  figure  has  followed  you?  One  question  more. 
All  this  since  Lord  Wilmot  knew  Lucy  7 

Sir  Geof.  Yes,  to  be  sure  ;  how  blind  I  have  been  !  (Lady  Ellinor 
appears  again,  R.) 

Hard.  Ha!  look  yonder!  Let  me  track  this  mystery;  (she  disap- 
pears, l.)  and  if  it  conceal  a  scheme  of  Lord  Wilnot's  against  your 
daughter's  honor,  it  shall  need  not  your  sword  to  protect  her. 

\Tushes  open  the  iffindot/D,  leaps  out,  and  exits.  L. 

Sir  Geof.  What  does  he  mean  7  Not  my  sword  7  Zounds!  he  don't 
think  of  his  own  !  If  he  does,  I'll  discard  him.  I'm  not  a  coward,  to 
let  other  men  risk  their  lives  in  my  quarrel.  Served  as  a  volunteer  un- 
der Marlbro',  at  Blenheim  ;  and  marched  on  a  cannon  !  Whatever  my 
faults,  no  one  can  say  I'm  not  brave,  {starting)  Ha!  bless  my  life! 
What  is  that  7  I  thought  I  heard  something — I'm  all  on  a  tremble ! 
Who  the  deuce  can  be  brave  when  he's  surrounded  by  poisoners — fol- 
lowed by  phantoms,  with  an  ugly  black  face  peering  in  at  his  window  7 
Hodge,  come  and  bar  up  the  shutters — lock  the  door  — let  out  the  house- 
dog !     Hodge  !  Hodge  !     Where  on  earth  is  that  scoundrel  7 

[Exit-,  L.  1    E. 

SCENE  III. —  The  Streets.  la  perspective  an  alley,  inscribed  Deadman's 
Lane.  A  large,  old-fashioned,  gloomy  house  in  the  corner,  with  the 
door  on  the  stage,  above  which  is  impanelled  a  sign  of  the  Crowt  and 
Portcullis.  Lady  Ellinor,  masked,  enters,  L.  1  E.—  looks  round, 
pauses,  and  enters  the  door,  R.     Dark ;  lights  down. 

Enter  Hap.dman.  i..  1  e. 


A.CT  III.]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM.  35 

Hard.   Ha  !  enters  that  house.     I  have  my  hand  on  the  clue  !  some 
nretext  to  call  on  the  morrow,  and  I  shall  quickly  unravel  the  skein. 
F  [Exit,  r.  2  e. 

Goodenough  Easy   [singing  tvithout,  l.) 

"  Old  King  Cole 
"Was  u  jolly  old  soul, 
And  a  jolly  old  soul  was  he 

Eutrs,  l  3  e.,  with  Lord  Wilmot  and  Softhead  ;  Easy,  his  dress  disor- 
dered, a  pip'  in  his  mouth,  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  hilarious,  musi- 
cal, and  oratorical;  Softhead  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  abject,  re- 
morseful, and  lachrymose  ;  Wilmot  sober,  hut  affecting  inebriety. 

"  He  c-Oled  for  his  pipe,  and  he  called  lor  his  bowl, 
And  he  called  lor  his  fiddlers  three." 

Wil.  Ha,  ha  !  I  imagine  myself  like  Bacchus  hetween  Silenus  and 
his— ass  ! 

Easy.  Wilmot,  you're  a  jolly  old  soul,  and  I'll  give  you  my  Barhara. 

Soft,  blubbering).  Hegh  1  hegh  !  hegh !  Betrayed  in  my  tenderest 
affections. 

Wil.  My  dear  Mr.  Easy,  I've  told  you  already  that  I  m  pre-engaged. 

Easy.  Pre-engaged  !  that's  devilish  unhandsome  !  But  now  I  look 
at  you,  you  do  seem  double  ;  and  if  you're  double,  you're  not  single  ; 
and  if  you're  not  single,  why,  you  can't  marry  Barbara,  for  that  would 
be  bigamy  !     But  I  don't  care  ;  you're  a  jolly  old  soul ! 

Wil.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Quite  mistaken,  Mr.  Easy.  But  if  you  want, 
for  a  son-in-law,  a  jolly  old  soul — there  he  is  ! 

Soft.  < bursting  out  afresh).  Hegh!  hegh!  hegh! 

Easy.  Hang  a  lord  !  What's  a  lord  ?  I'm  a  respectable,  independent 
family  Briton  ?  Softhead,  give  us  your  fist ;  you're  a  jolly  old  soul,  and 
you  shall  have  my  Barbara  ! 

Soft  Hegh  !  hegh  !  I'm  not  a  jolly  old  soul.  I'm  a  smtul,  wicked, 
miserable  monster.     Hegh  !  hogh  ! 

Easy.  What's  a  monster?  I  like  a  monster  !  My  girl  shau  t  go  a- 
be«<dn°-  anv  farther.  You're  a  precious  good  fellow,  and  your  father's 
wTaldermaB,  and  has  got  a  great  many  votes,  and  I'll  stand  for  the 
citv  ;  and  you  shall  have  mv  Barbara. 

Soft.  I  don't  deserve  her,  Mr.  Easy  ;  I  don't  deserve  such  an  angel ! 
I'm  not  precious  good.  Lords  and  tigers  have  corrupted  my  innocence. 
Hegh  !  hegh  !     I'm  going  to  be  hanged. 

Watch,  {without,  l.).   Half-past  eight  o'clock  ! 

Wil.  Come  along,  gentlemen  ;  we  shall  have  the  watch  on  us. 

Easy. — 

"  And  the  bands  that  guard  the  city, 
Cried—'  Rebels,  yield  or  die  !'" 

Enter  Watchman,  ivith  staff,  rattle  and  lantern,  l.  3  e. 

Watch.  Half-past  eight  o'clock— move  on  !  move  on  ! 

Easy.  Order,  order!  Mr.  Vice  and  gentlemen,  here's  a  stranger  dis- 
turbing the  harmony  of  the  evening.  I  knock  him  clown  for  a  song. 
[seizes  The  Watchman's  rattle)  Half-past  eight,  Esq.,  on  his  legs  !  Sing, 
sir;  I  knock  you  down  for  a  song. 

Watch.  Help!    help!     Watch!  watch!  (cries  within,  l,  "Watch!   ) 

Soft.  Haik  !  the  officers  of  justice  !  My  wicked  career  is  approach- 
ing its  close! 

Easy  (who  has  got  astride  on  the  Watchman's  head,  and  persuades  him- 
self that  the  rest  of 'the  Watchman    is  the  table).   Mr.  Vice  and  gentlemen, 


36  NUT    SO    BAD    AS    \\F.    SEI.M.  [ACT  III. 

the  toast  of  the  evening — what's  the  matter  with  Hie  table!  'Tis  bob- 
bing up  and  down.  The  tables  drunk!  Order  for  the  chair — you  table, 
you!  (thumps  the  Watchman  with  the  rattle)  Fill  your  glasses  —  a  bump- 
er toast.  Prosperity  to  the  city  of  Loudon — nine  times  nine — Hip,  hip, 
hurrah!  (waves  the  rattle  over  hip  head;  the  rattle  springs,  he  it  amazed) 
Why,  the  Chairman's  hammer  is  as  drunk  as  the  table  ! 

Enter  Watchmen,  l.  3  e.,  with  staves,  springing  their  rattles. 

Wil.  (drawing  Softhead  off  into  a  corner).  Hold  your  tongue — they'll 
not  see  us  here  I 

Watch,  (escaping).  Murder! — murder! — this  is  the  fellow — most  des- 
perate ruffian.  (East  is  upset  by  the  escape  of  the  WATCHMAN,  and  after 
some  effort  to  remove  him  otherwise,  the  Guardians  of  the  Night  hoist  him  on 
their  shoulders.) 

Easy.  I'm  being  chaired  member  for  the  city!  Freemen  and  Elec- 
tors! For  this  elevation  to  the  post  of  member  for  your  metropolis,  I 
return  you  my  heartfelt  thanks  !  Steady,  there,  steady  !  The  prou  lest 
day  of  my  life.  'Tis  the  boast  of  the  British  Constitution  that  a  plain, 
sober  man  like  me  may  rise  to  honors  the  most  exalted  !  Long  live  the 
British  Constitution.  Hip — hip — hurrah  !  (is  carried  off  waving  the  rattle. 
Softhead  continues  to  weep  in  speechless  sorrow.) 

Wil.  (coming forth).  Ha!  ha!  ha!  My  family  Briton  being  chaired 
for  the  city  !  'So  severe  on  a  cheerful  jdass."  Well,  he  has  chosen  a 
son-in-law  drunk ;  and  egad  !  be  shall  keep  to  him  sober!  Stand  up, 
how  do  you  feel  ? 

Soft.  Feel !     I'm  a  ruin  ! 

Wil.  Faith,  1  never  saw  a  more  mournful  one!  It  must  be  near  Sir 
Geoffrey's !  Led  them  here — on  my  way  to  this  sepulchral  appointment, 
Headman's  Lane.  Where  the  plague  can  it  be  1  Ha!  the  very  place. 
Looks  like  it!  How  get  rid  of  Softhead"?  Ha.  ha  !  I  have  it.  Soft- 
head awake  !  the  night  has  be^uii — the  time  for  monsters  and  their  prey. 
Now  will  1  lift  the  dark  veil  from  the  mysteries  of  London.  Behold 
that  house,  Headman's  Lane  ! 

Soft.  Headman's  Lane  !     I'm  in  a  cold  prespiration  ! 

Wil.  In  that  house — under  the  antique  sign  of  Crown  and  Portcullis 
— are  such  delightful  horrors  at  work  as  would  make  the  wigs  of  holy 
men  stand  on  end  !  The  adventure  is  dangerous,  but  deliriously  excit- 
ing. Into  that  abode  will  we  plunge,  and  gaze,  like  Macbeth,  "on  deeds 
without  a  name." 

Lady  E.,  mashed,  enters  from  the   door   in   Deadman's  Lane,  and  approaches 
W'ilmot,  who  has,  till  now,  hold  of  Softhead. 

Soft.  Hegh  !  hegh  !  hoah  !  I  won't  gaze  on  deeds  without  a  name! 
I  won't  plunge  into  Headmen's  abodes  !  (perceiving  the  figure)  Ha  !  Look 
there!  Hark  veil,  indeed  !  Mysteries  of  London  !  Horrible  apparition, 
avaunt!  (breaks  from  Wilmot,  who  releases  him  as  he  sees  the  figure)  Hegh  ! 
hegh  !     I'll  go  home  to  my  mother  !  [Exit,  n.  1  e. 

Lady  E.  ?notions  to  "Wilmot  and  exits  into  the  house,  followed  £;/ Wilmot. 


ACT  IV.]  KOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SF.EXI.  37 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — The  Library  in  Sin  Geoffrey's  house. 

Enter  Haudma.v  and  Sir  Geoffrey,  l.  1  e. 

Sir  Geof.  Yes!  I've  seen  that  you're  not  indifferent  to  Lucy.  But 
before  1  approve  or  discourage,  just  tell  me  more  of  yourself — your 
birth,  your  fortune,  past  life.  Of  course,  you  are  the  son  of  a  gentleman  1 
{aside)  Now  as  be  speaks  truly  or  falsely  I  will  discard  him  as  a  liar,  or 
reward  him  with  Lucy's  hand.     He  turns  aside.     He  will  lie  ! 

Hard.  Sir,  at  the  risk  of  my  hopes,  I  will  speak  the  hard  truth. 
':  The  son  of  a  gentleman  !"  I  think  not.  My  infancy  passed  in  the 
house  of  a  farmer  ;  the  children  with  whom  I  played  told  me  I  was  an 
orphan.  I  was  next  dropped,  how  I  know  not,  in  the  midst  of  that 
roush  world  called  school.  "  You  have  talent,"  said  the  master;  "but 
you're  idle  ;  you  have  no  right  to  holidays;  you  must  force  your  way 
through  life;  you  are  sent  here  by  charity." 

Sir  Geof.  Charity1      There,  the  old  fool  was  wrong  ! 

Hard.  My  idleness  vanished — I  became  the  head  of  the  school. 
Then  I  resolved  no  longer  to  be  the  pupil  of — charity.  At  the  age  of 
sixteen  I  escaped,  and  took  for  my  motto — the  words  "of  the  master: — 
"  You  must  force  your  way  through  life."  Hope  and  pride  whispered — 
"  You  shall  force  it." 

Sir  Geof.  Poor  fellow  !     What  then  ? 

Hard.  Eight  years  of  wandering,  adventure,  hardship,  and  trial  I 
often  wanted  bread— never  courage.  At  the  end  of  those  years  I  had 
risen — to  what  1     A  desk  at  a  lawyer's  office  in  Norfolk 

Sir  Geof.  (aside).  My  own  lawyer  1  where  I  first  caught  tiace  of 
him  again. 

Hard.  Party  spirit  ran  high  in  town.  Politics  bejan  to  bewitch  me. 
There  was  a  Speaking  Club,  and  I  spoke.  My  ambition  rose  higher 
— took  the  flight  of  an  author.  I  came  up  to  London  with  ten  pounds  in 
my  pocket,  and  a  work  on  the  "  State  of  the  Nation."  It  sold  well  ; 
the  publisher  brought  me  four  hundred  pounds.  "  Vast  fortunes,"  said' 
he,  '•  are  made  in  tlie  South  Sea  Scheme.  Venture  your  hundreds,— I'll 
send  you  a  broker " 

Sir  Geof.  He  !  he  !  I  hope  he  was  clever,  that  broker  ? 

Hard.  Clever  indeed  ;  in  a  fortnight  he  said  to  me,  "  Your  hundreds 
have  swelled  into  thousands.  For  this  money  I  can  get  you  an  annuity 
on  land,  just  enough  for  a  parliamentary  qualification."  "  The  last  hint 
fired  me — I  bought  the  annuity.  You  now  know  my  fortune,  and  how 
it  was  made. 

Sir  Geof.  (aside).  He !  he !  I  must  tell  this  to  Easy  ;  how  he'll 
enjoy  it. 

Hard.  Not  Ions  after,  at  a  political  coffee-house,  a  man  took  me 
aside.  '•  Sir,"  said  he,  "  you  are  Mr.  Hardman  who  wrote  the  famous 
work  on  '  The  State  of  the  Nation.'  Will  you  come  into  Parliament  ? 
We  want  a  man  like  you  for  our  borough ;  we'll  return  you  free  of 
expense;  not  a  shilling  of  bribery." 

Sir  Geof.  He  !  he  !     Wonderful!   not  a  shilling  of  bribery. 

Hard.  The  man  kept  his  word,  and  I  came  into  Parliament — inex- 
perienced and  friendless.  I  spoke,  and  was  laughed  at;  spoke  again, 
and  was  listened  to  ;  failed  often;  succeeded  at  last.  Here,  yesterday, 
in  ending  my  tale  I  must  have  said,  looking  down,  "  Can  you  «ive  vour 
child  to  a  man  of  birth  more  than  doubtful,  and  of  fortunes  so~hum*ble  ! 


38  NOT    SO    IS\I>    A*    WR    BERK.  [ACM    I  >'. 

Yet  aspiring  even  thou  to  the  haul  of  your  heiress,  I  wrote  to  Sir 
Robert  for  ;i  place  just  vacated  by  a  man  of  high  rank,  who  is  raised  t.> 
the  p  lerage.     Be  refused. 

Sir  G  bop.  Of  course,   [aside)  I  suspect  he's  very  rash  and  presuming. 

1 1  a  it  i >.  To-day  the  refusal  is  retracted — the  office  is  mine. 

Snt  (Jr. n'.    "■'  lit  !   I  had  no  band  in  thai  ! 

Hard  I  am  now  one — if  not  of  the  highest — yel  still  o  <  of  thi 
eminent  through  which  the  Majesty  ol  England  administers  her  laws. 
And,  with  front  erect,  1  fay  to  you — as  I  would  to  the  first  peer  of  the 
realm—"  I  have  no  charts  of  brond  lands,  and  n<>  will  of  proud  lather-. 
Bat  alone  and  unf.ien  led  I  have  fought  my  way  against  Fortune.  Did 
your  ancestors  more  !  My  country  lias  tru  lei  the  new  man  to  her 
councils,  and  the  man  «  hom  she  honors  is  the  i  qual  of  all." 

Sir  Gbof.  Brave  fellow,  your  Hand.  Win  Lucy's  consent,  and  you 
have  mine.  Hush!  do  thanks!  Now  listen  ;  [  have  told  you  my  dark 
Btory  -these  flowers  cannot  come  from  Wilm.it.  1  have  examined  them 
again — they  are  made  up  in  the  very  form  of  the  |>  isies  I  ha  I  the  folly 
to  Ben  I,  in  the  days  of  our  courtship,  to  the  wife  who  afterwards  betray- 
ed m  ■ 

Haed,  Be  not  so  sure  that  she  betrayed.  No  proof  but  the  boast  of  a 
profligate. 

Sra  Geop.  Who  had  been  my  intimate  friend  for  years— so  that,  0 
torture!  i  am  haunted  with  the  doubt  whether  mv  heiress  be  my  own 
child  !— and  to  whom  by  the  confession  of  a  servant  she  sent  n  letter  in 
secret  the  very  day  on  which  I  struck  the  mocking  boast  from  the  vil- 
lain's lips  in  a  public  tavern  Ah,  he  was  always  n  wit  and  a  scoffer— 
perhaps  it  is  from  him  that  these  flowers  an-  sent,  in  token  of  gibe  and 
insult.  He  h  is  discovered  the  man  he  dishonored,  in  spite  of  the  change 
of  name 

Haiid  You  changed  your  name  for  an  inheritance.  You  have  not 
told  ui"  ib  it  which  you  formerly  bore. 

Snt  Geop.  Mm  land. 

Hard.   Morland?     Ha — and  the  seducer's 

Sir  Ge  ip.   Lord  Henry  de  Mowbray 

Hard.  The  reprobate  brother  of  the  Duke  of  Middlesex.  He  died  a 
few  months  since. 

Sir  Geo f    (daggering)    Died  too  !     Both  dead  ! 

Hard.  (asde).  Tonson  spoke  of  Lord  Henry's  Memoir — Confession 
about  Lady  Morland  in  Fallen's  hands  I  will  go  to  Fallen  at  once. 
(aloud)  You  have  given  me  a  new  clue.  I  will  follow  it  up.  When  can 
I  see  you  again  ' 

Sik'Geof."  I'm  going  to  Easy's — you'll  find  me  there  all  the  morning. 
But  don't  forget  Lucy — we  must  save  her  from  Wilmot. 

Hard.   Fear  Wilmot  no  more.     This  day  he  shall  abandon  his  suit. 

[Exit  Hardman,  L.  1  E. 

Sir  Geop.  Hodge!     Well— well 

Enter  Hodge,  r.  1  e. 

Hodge,  take  your  hat  and  your  bludgeon — attend  me  to  the  city,  {aside) 
She'll  be  happy  with  Hardman.  Ah  !  if  she  were  my  own  child  after 
all  !  [Exeunt  Sir  Gegffrry  and  Hodge,  l.  1  e. 

SCENE  II — David  Fallen's  Garret.     The  scene  resembling  that  of  Ho- 
garth's "  Distrcst  Poet  "     Fallen  discovered  seated  at  tabic. 

Fal.  (opening  the  casement).  So,  the  morning  air  breathes  f:edi !     One 


ACT  IV. J  KOT    SJ    BAD    AS    Tfii    SEEM  39 

inomenL's  respite  from  drudgery.  Another  line  to  this  poem,  ray  grand 
bequest  to  ray  country!  All!  this  description;  unfinished;  good, 
good. 

"  Methinks  we  walk  in  dreams  on  1  iky  land, 
Where—  golden  ore— lies  mix'd  with ''  * 

Enter  Paddy,  k.  d. 

Paddy.  Please,  sir.  the  milkworaan's  score! 
Fal.  Stay,  stay; — 

"  Lies  mixed  with — common  sand  !" 

Eh  1  Milkwoman'?  She  must  be  paid,  or  the  children — I — I — (fum- 
bling  in  his  pocket,  and  looking  about  the  table)  There's  another  blanket  on 
the  bed  ;  pawn  it. 

Paddy.  Agh,  row,  don't  be  so  ungrateful  to  your  ould  friend,  the 
blanket.  When  Mr.  Tonson,  the  great  bookshiller,  tould  me,  says  he, 
'•  Paddy,  I'd  give  two  bunder  gould  guineas  for  the  papursh  Mr.  Fallen 
has  in  his  disk  !" 

Fal.  Go,  go  !  {knock  without,  n.) 

Paddy.  Agh,  murther!  Who  can  that  be  distarbin'  the  door  at  the 
top  of  the  mornin'  ?  [Exit,  r.  d. 

Fal.  Oh!  that  fatal  Memoir!  My  own  labors  scarce  keep  me  from 
starving,  and  this  wretched  scrawl  of  a  profligate  worth  what  to  me 
were  Golconda  !     Heaven  sustain  me  !     I'm  tempted. 

Re-enter  Paddy,  with  Wilmot,  disguised  as  Edmund  Curll. 

Paddy.  Stoop  your  head,  sir.  'Tis  not  a  dun,  sir;  'tis  Mr.  Curll ; 
says  lie's  come  to  outbid  Mr.  Tonson,  sir. 

Fal.  Go  quick  ;  pawn  the  blanket.  Let  me  think  my  children  are 
fed.  {exit  Paddy,  k.  d.)  Now,  sir,  what  do  you  want  ? 

Wil.  {taking  out  his  handkerchief  and  whimpering).  My  dear,  good  Ml*. 
Fallen — no  offence — I  do  so  feel  for  the  distresses  of  genius.  I  am  a 
bookseller,  but  I  have  a  heart — and  I'm  come  to  buy 

Fal.  Have  you?  this  poem?  it  is  nearly  finished — twelve  books — 
twenty  years'  labor — twenty-four  thousand  lines  ! — ten  pounds,  Mr. 
Curll,  ten  pounds  1 

Wil.  Price  of  Paradise  Los'  I  Can't  expect  such  juices  for  poetry 
now-a-days,  my  dear  Mr.  Fallen.  Nothing  takes  that  is  not  sharp  and 
spicy.  Hum!  I  hear  you  have  rome  most  interesting  papers;  private 
Memoirs  and  Confessions  of  a  Man  of  Quality  recently  deceased.  Nay, 
nay,  Mr.  Fallen,  don't  shrink  back ;  I'm  not  like  that  shabby  dog,  Ton- 
son.  Three  hundred  guineas  for  the  Memoir  of  Lord  Henry  de  Mow- 
bray. 

Fal.  Three  hundred  guineas  for  that-garbage  ! — not  ten  for  the  poem  ! 
— and — the  children  !  Well  !  (goes  to  the  cupboard  and  take  out  the  Me- 
moir in  a  portfolio,  splendidly  bound,  with  the  arms  and  supporters  of  the 
Mowbrays  blazoned  on  the  sides)  All! — but  the  honor  of  a  woman — the 
secrets  of  a  family — the 

Wil.  {grasping  at  the  portfolio,  which  Fallex  still  detains).  Nothing  sells 
better,  my  dear,  dear  Mr.  Fallen !  But  how,  how  did  you  come  by  these 
treasures,  my  excellent  friend  ? 

Fal.  How?     Lord  Henry  gave  them  to  me  himself,  on  his  death-bed, 

*  As  it  would  be  obviously  presumptuous  to  assign  to  an  author  so  eminent  as 
Mr.  David  Fallen  any  verses  composed  by  a  living  writer,  the  two  lines  iu  the  text 
are  taken  from  Mr.  Dryden's  Indian  Emperor. 


40  NOT    SO    BAD    A3    WE    SKKM.  [ACT  IY. 

Wir..  Nay;  what  could  he  give  thera  for  but  to  publish,  my  sweet 
Mr.  Fallen  ?  no  doubt  to  immortalize  all  tho  lailies  who  loved  him. 

Fal  No,  sir;  profligate  as  he  was,  and  rile  as  may  be  much  in  this 
Memoir,  that  was  not  his  dying  intention,  though  it  might  be  his  Bret. 
There  was  a  lady  he  had  once  foully  injured — tlie  sole  woman  he  bad 
ever  loved  eno'  for  remorse.  This  Memoir  contains  a  confession  that 
might  serve  to  clear  the  name  he  himself  had  aspersed  ;  and  in  the  sud- 
den repentance  of  his  last  moments,  he  bade  me  seek  the  lady  and  place 
the  whole  in  her  hands,  to  use  as  best  might  serve  to  establish  her  inno- 
cence. 

W'il.   How  could  you  know  the  lady,  my  benevolent  friend  ? 

Fal.  I  did  not;  but  she  was  supposed  to  be  abroad  with  her  father — 
a  Jacobite  exile — and  1,  then  a  Jacobite  agent,  had  the  best  chance  to 
trace  her. 

Wil.  And  you  did  1 

Fai,.  But  to  hear  she  had  died   somewhere  in  France. 

Wil.  Then,  of  course,  you  may  now  gratify  our  intelligent  public,  for 
your  own  personal  profit.  Clear  as  day,  my  magnanimous  friend  ! 
Three  hundred  guineas  !     I  have  'em  here  in  a  bag  !  {shows  it.) 

Fal.  Begone!      1  will  not  sell  a  man's  hearth  t<>  the  public. 

Wil.  {aside).  Noble  fellow!  {'ilowl)  Gently,  gently,  my  too  warm,  but 
high-spirited  friend!  To  say  the  truth,  I  don't  come  on  my  own  ac- 
count. To  whom,  my  dear  sir,  since  the  lady  is  dead,  should  be  given 
these  papers,  if  anfll  for  a  virtuous,  but  inquisitive  public?  Why, surely 
to  Lord  Henry's  nearest  relation.  I  am  employed  by  the  rich  Duke  of 
Middlesex.     Name  your  terms. 

Fal.  Ha!  ha!  Then  at  last  he  comes  crawling  to  me,  your  proud 
Duke?  Sir,  years  ago,  when  a  kind  word  from  his  Grace,  a  nod  ol  his 
head,  a  touch  of  his  hand,  would  have  turned  my  foes  into  flatterers,  I 
had  the  meanness  to  name  him  my  patron — inscribed  to  him  a  work,  took 
it  to  his  house,  and  waited  in  his  hall  anion.;  purlers  and  lackeys— till, 
sweeping  by  his  carriage,  he  saiJ,  "  Oh,  you  are  the  poet  ?  take  this  ,  ' 
and  extending  his  alms,  as  if  to  a  beggar.  "Ton  look  very  thin,  sir; 
Stay  and  dine  with  my  people  "     People— his  servants  ! 

Wil.  Calm  yourself,  my  good  Mr.  Fallen  !  'Tis  his  G: ace's  innocent 
way  with  us  all. 

Fal.  Go!  let  him  know  what  these  memoirs  contain  !  They  would 
make  the  Proud  Duke  the  butt  of  the  town — the  jeer  of  the  lackeys, 
who  jeered  at  my  rags;  expose  his  frailties,  his  follies,  his  personal 
secrets.  Tell  him  this ;  and  then  say  that  my  poverty  shall  not  be  the 
tool  of  his  brother's  revenge  ;  but  my  pride  shall  not  stoop  from  its 
pedestal  to  take  money  from  him.  Now,  sir,  am  I  right  '!  Reply,  not 
as  tempter  to  pauper ;' but  if  one  spark  of  manhood  be  in  you,  as  man 
speaks  to  man. 

Wil.  {resuming  his  own  manner).  I  reply,  sir,  as  man  to  man,  and  gen- 
tleman to  gentleman.  1  am  Frederick.  Lord  Wilmot,  Pardon  this  im- 
posture. The  Duke  is  my  father's  friend.  I  am  here  to  obtain,  what  it 
is  clear  that  he  alone  should  possess.  Mr.  Fallen,  your  works  first  raised 
me  from  the  world  of  the  senses,  anil  taught  me  to  believe  in  such  no- 
bleness as  I  now  hope  for  in  you.  Give  me  this  record  to  take  to  the 
Duke — no  price,  sir;  for  such  things  are  priceless — and  let  me  go  hence 
with  the  sight  of  this  poverty  before  my  eye<.  and  on  my  soul  the  grand 
picture  of  the  man  who  has  spurned  the  bribe  to  his  honor,  and  can 
humble  by  a  gift  the  great  prince  who  insu'ted  him  by  alms. 

Fal.  Take  it — take  it !  {(fives  the  port/olio)  I  am  save  1  from  tempta- 
tion.    God  bless  you,  young  man  ! 

Wil.  Now  you  indeed  make  mo  twofold  your  debtor — in  your  books, 


ACT  IV. J  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM.  41 

the  rich  thought ;  in  yourself  the  heroic  example.  Accept  from  my 
superfluities,  in  small  part  of  such  debt,  a  yearly  sum  equal  to  that 
which  your  poverty  refused  as  a  bribe  from  Mr.  Tonson. 

Fal.  My  Lord — my  Lord  !  (bursts  into  tears.) 

Wil.  Oh,  trust  me  the  day  shall  come,  when  men  will  feel  that  it  is  not 
charity  we  owe  to  the  ennoblers  of  life — it  is  tribute !  When  your 
Order  shall  rise  with  the  civilization  it  called  into  being,  and  shall  refer 
its  claim  to  just  rank  among  freemen,  to  some  Queen  whom  even  a  Mil- 
ton might  have  sung,  and  even  a  Hampden  have  died  for. 

Fal.  0,  dream  of  my  youth  !     My  heart  swells  and  chokes  me  ! 

Enter  Hardmax,  r.  d. 

Hard,  (aside).  What's  this  1  Fallen  weeping?  Ah!  is  not  that  the 
tyrannical  sneak,  Edmund  Curlll 

Wil.  i  changing  his  tone  to  Fallen  into  one  of  imperiousness).  Can't  hear 
of  the  poem,  Mr.  Fallen.  Don't  tell  me.  Ah,  Mr.  Hard-nan  (concealing 
the  portfolio),  your  most  humble  !  Sir — sir — if  you  want  to  publish  some- 
thing smart  and  spicy — Secret  Anecdotes  of  Cabinets — Sir  Robert  Wal- 
pole's  Adventures  with  the  La  lies — I'll  come  down  as  handsomely  as 
any  man  in  the  Row — smart  and  spicy 

Hard.  Offer  to  bribe  me,  you  insolent  rascal ! 

Wil.  Oh,  my  dear,  good  Mr.  Hard  man,  I've  bribed  the  Premier  him- 
self.    Ha!  ha!     Servant,  sir  ;  servant.  [Exit,  r.  d. 

Hard.  Loathsome  vagabond  !  My  dear  Mr.  Fallen,  you  have  the 
manuscript  Memoir  of  Lord  Henry  de  Mowbray.  I  know  its  great 
value.     Name  your  own  price  to  permit  me  just  to  inspect  it. 

Fal.  It  is  gone  ;  and  to  the  hands  of  his  brother,  the  Duke. 

Hard.  The  Duke  !  This  is  a  thunder-stroke  !  Say,  sir ;  you  have 
read  this  Memoir — does  it  contain  aught  respecting  a  certain  Lady  Mor- 
land  1 

Fal.  It  does.  It  confesses  that  Lord  Henry  slandered  her  reputation 
as  a  woman  in  order  to  sustain  his  own  as  a  seducer.  That  part  of  the 
Memoir  was  writ  on  his  death-bed. 

Hard.  His  boast,  then 

Fal.  Was  caused  by  the  scorn  of  her  letter  rejecting  his  suit. 

Hard.  What  joy  for  Sir  Geoffrey  !     And  that  letter  1 

Fal.  Is  one  of  the  documents  that  make  up  the  Memoir. 

Hard.  And  these  documents  are  now  in  the  hands  of  the  Duke  1 

Fal.  They  are.     For,  since  Lady  Moiiand  is  dead 

Hard.  Are  you  sure  she  is  dead  "? 

Fal.  1  only  go  by  report 

Hard.  Report  often  lies,  (aside)  Who  but  Lady  Morland  can  this 
mask  be  1  I  will  go  at  once  to  the  house  and  clear  up  that  doubt  my- 
self But  the  Duke's  appointment !  Ah  !  that  must  not  be  forgotten  ; 
my  rival  must  be  removed  ere  Lucy  can  be  won.  And  what  hold  on  the 
Duke  himself  to  produce  the  Memoir,  if  I  get  the  dispatch,  (aloud)  Well, 
Mr.  Fallen,  there  is  no  more  to  be  said  as  to  the  Memoir  Your  messen- 
ger will  meet  his  Grace,  as  we  settled.  1  .'hall  be  close  at  hand;  and 
mark,  the  messenger  must  give  me  the  dispatch  which  is  meant  for  the 
Pretender.  [Exit  Hardmax,  r.  d. 

Re-enter  Paddy. 

Paddy.  Plase,  sur,  an'  I've  paid  the  rank  score 

Fal.  (interrupting  him).  I'm  to  be  rich— so  rich  !  'Tis  my  turn  now. 
I've  shared  your  pittance,  you  shall  share  my  plenty,  (sinks  down  on 
chair   seizing  Paddy's  hand  and  shaking  it  heartily  as  the  s^ene  closes  in.) 


42  NOT    so    BAD    as    tt'l.    si:KM.  [ACT  IT. 


SCENE  III.— Tin  Mall. 

Enter  Softhead,  l.  8  b.,  Am  arms  folded,  and  in  deep  thought,  at  though 
forming  a  virtuous  resolution. 

Soft.  Little  did  I  foresee,  in  the  days  of  my  innocence,  when  Mr.  Lillo 

road  io  me  his  affecting  tragedy  of  George  Barnwell,*  how  I  myself  was 

to  be  led  on,  step  by  step,  t<>  the  brink  of  deeds  without  a  name.     Dead- 

Lane — that  funereal  apparition  in  black— a  warning  to  Btartle  the 

must  obdurate  conscience. 

Enter   Easy,    b.  8  e.,  recently   dismissed  from   the    Watch-house;  si 
skulking ,  •>'. 

EAST.  Not  a  coach  on  tin-  stand  !  A  pretty  pickle  I'm  in  if  any  one 
sees  in"'  A  sober,  respectable  man  like  mo.  to  awake  in  tlie  watch- 
house,  be  kepi  there  till  noon  among  thieves  and  pickpockets,  and  al 

last  to  be  lined  five  shillings  for  druukei ss  and  disorderly  conduct  ; 

all  from  dining  with  a  lord  who  had  no  thoughts  of  making  Barbara  my 
Lady  after  all  !  Donee  take  trim  !  {discovering  Softhbao,  aside)  Softhead  ! 
how  shall  1  escape  him  1 

Soft,  {asid  ■  »j  East).   Easy!     What  a  fall !     I'll  appear  not 

to  remember.  Barbara's  father  should  not  feel  degraded  in  the  eyes  of 
a  wretch  like  myself!  {aloud)  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Easy  1  Von  re  out 
early,  to  day. 

Easy,  [aside).  Ha  !  He  was  so  drunk  himself  he  has  forgotten  all 
about  it.  {aloud)  Yes,  a  headache.  You  were  so  pleasant  at  dinner.  I 
wanted  the  air  of  the  park. 

Soft.    Why,  yon  look  rather  poorly,  Mr.  Easj  ! 

Easy.  Indeed,  I  feel  bo.  A  man  in  business  can't  afford  to  be  laid 
up — so  I  thought, before  I  wont  homo  to  the  city,  that  I'd  just  look  into 
— Ha,  ha  !  a  seasoned  toper  like  you  will  laugh  when  I  toll  you — I 
thought  I'd  just  look  into  the  'pothecary's  ' 

Soft.  Just  been  there  myself  Mr   Easy,  {showing  a phinl.) 

Easy  (rrgarding  it  with  mournful  disgust).  Nut  taken  physic  since  I 
was  a  boy  !     It  looks  very  nasty  ! 

Soft.  'Tis  worse  than  it  looks!  And  this  is  called  Pleasure!  Ah, 
Mr.  Easy,  don't  give  way  to  Fred's  fascination;  you  don't  know  how  it 
ends ! 

Easy.  Indeed  I  do.  {aside)  It  ends  in  the  watch-house,  (aloud)  And 
I'm  shocked  to  think  what  will  become  of  yourself,  if  you  are  thus 
every  ni°ht  led  away  by  a  lord,  who 

Soft.  Hush!  talk  of  the  devil— look !  he's  coming  up  the  Mall! 
(Softhead  retires  back.) 

Easy.  He  is  ?  then  I'm  off;  I  see  a  sedan-chair.  Chair!  chair!  stop 
—chair!  chair!  [Exit,  n.  2  e. 

Enter  Wilmot  andDvKT.  with  portfolio,  L.  3  E. 

Duke  (looking  at  portfolio).  Infamous,  indeed  !  His  own  base  lie 
against  that  poor  lady,  whose  husband  he  wounded.  Her  very  letter 
attached  to  it.     Ha! — what  is  thisl     Such  ribaldry  on  me!     Gracious 

*  We  have  only,  I  fear,  Mr.  Softhead's  authority  for  supposing  George  Barnwell 
to  be  then  written  ;  it  was  not  acted  till  some  )  ears  alterwavds. 


ACT  IV.]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM.  43 

Heaven  !     My  name  thus  dragged  through  the  dirt,  and  by  a  son  of  my 

own  house!     Oh  !  my  Lord,  how  shall  I  thank  you  1 

Wil.  Thank  not  me  ;  but  the  poet,  whom  your  Grace  left  in  the  ball. 

Duke.  Name  it  not — I'll  beg  his  pardon  myself!  Adieu;  I  must  go 
home  and  lock  up  this  scandal  till  I've  leisure  to  read  and  destroy  it ; 
never  again  shall  it  come  to  the  day  !  And  then,  sure  that  no  blot  shall 
be  seen  in  my  'scutcheon,  1  can  peril  my  life  without  fear  in  the  cause 
of  my  kins.  [Exit  Duke,  r.  2  e. 

Wil.  {chanting). 

"  Gather  your  rosebuds  while  you  may, 
For  time  is  still  a-flying." 

Since  my  visit  last  night  to  Deadman's  Lane,  and  my  hope  to  give  Lu-v 
such  happiness,  I  feel  as  if  I  trod  upon  air  [discovers  Softhead)  A'i. 
Softhead  !  why,  you  stand  there  as  languid  and  lifeless  as  if  you  were 
capable   of — fishing  .' 

Soft.   I've  been  thinking — {advances.) 

Wil.  Thinking  !  you  do  look  fatigued  !  What  a  horrid  exertion  it 
must  have  been  to  you ! 

Soft.  Ah  !  Fred,  Fred,  don't- be  so  hardened.  What  atrocity  did  you 
perpetrate  last  night  ? 

Wil  Last  night  1  Oh,  at  Deadman's  Lane;  monstrous,  indeed.  And 
this  morning,  too,  another  !  Never  had  so  many  atrocities  on  my  hands 
as  within  the  last  twenty-four  hours  But  they  are  all  nothing  to  that 
which  I  perpetrated  yesterday,  just  before  dinner.  Hark  !  I  bribed 
the  Prime  Minister. 

Soft.  Saints  in  heaven  ! 

Wil.  Ha !  ha !  Hit  him  plump  on  the  jolly  blunt  side  of  his  char- 
acter !  I  must  tell  you  about  it.  Drove  home  from  AVill's ;  put  my 
Murillo  in  the  carriage,  and  off  to  Sir  Robert's — shown  into  his  office, — 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Wilmot,"  says  he,  with  that  merry  roll  of  his  eye  ;  ':  this 
is  an  honor,  what  can  I  do  for  you'!  " — "  Sir  Robert,"  says  I,  "  we  men 
of  the  world  soon  come  to  the  point  ;  'tis  a  maxim  of  yours  that  all 
have  their  price." — "  Not  quite  that,"  says  Sir  Robert,  "  but  let  us  sup- 
pose that  it  is."  Another  roll  of  his  eye,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  shall 
get  this  rogue  a  bargain!" — "So,  Sir  Robert,"  quoth  I,  with  a  bow, 
"  I've  come  to  buy  the  Prime  Minister." — "Buy  me,"  cried  Sir  Robert, 
and  he  laughed  till  I  thought  he'd  have  choked  ;  "  my  price  is  rather 
high,  I'm  afraid."  Then  I  go  to  the  door,  bid  my  lackeys  bring  in  the 
Murillo.  "  Look  at  that  if  you  please  ;  about  the  mark,  is  it  not1?  "  Sir 
Robert  runs  to  the  picture,  his  breast  heaves,  his  eyes  sparkle ;  "  A 
Murillo  !  "  cries  he,  "  name  your  price  !" — "  I  have  named  it."  Then  he 
looks  at  me  so,  and  I  look  at  him  so ! — turn  out  the  lackeys,  place  pen, 
ink  and  paper  before  him;  "That  place  in  the  Treasury  just  vacant, 
and  the  Murillo  is  yours." — "  For  yourself? — I  am  charmed,"  cried  Sir 
Robert.  "No,  'tis  for  a  friend  of  your  own,  who's  in  want  of  it." — 
'Oh,  that  alters  the  case;  I've  so  many  friends  troubled  with  the  sain° 
sort  of  want." — "  Yes,  but  the  Murillo  is  genuine, — pray,  what  are  the 
friends  1  "  Out  laughed  Sir  Robert,  "  There's  no  resisting  you  and  the 
Murillo  together!  There's  the  appointment.  And  now,  since  your 
Lordship  has  bought  me,  I  must  insist  upon  buying  your  Lordship. 
Fair  play  is  a  jewel."  Then  I  take  my  grand  holiday  air.  "Sir  Rob- 
ert," said  I,  "  you've  bought  me  long  ago.  You've  given  us  peace 
where  we  feared  civil  war ;  and  a  Constitutional  King  instead  of  a  des- 
pot. And  if  that's  not  enough  to  buy  the  vote  of  an  Englishman,  believe 
me,  Sir  Robert,  he's  not  worth  the  buying."  Then  he  stretched  out  his 
bluff,  hearty  hand,  and  I  gave  it  a  bluff,  hearty  shake.     He  got  the  Mu- 


44  NOT    SO    CAD    AS    WK    Si  IM.  [ACT  IT. 

rillo — Hardman  the  place.  And  here  stand  I,  the  only  man  in  all  Eng- 
land who  can  boast  tliat  he  bought  the  Prime  Minister!  Faith,  you 
may  well  call  me  hardened  ;  I  don't  feel  the  least  bit  of  remorse. 

Soft.  Hardman  !  you  sot  Hardman  the  place  1 

Wil.  I  did  not  say  Hardman 

Soft.  You  did  say  Hardman.  But  as  'tis  a  secret  that  might  get  you 
into  trouble,  I'll  keep  it.  Yet,  Dimidum  mac,  that's  not  behaving  much 
like  a  monster  ? 

Wil.  Why,  it  does  seem  betraying  the  Good  Old  Cause — but  if  there's 
honor  among  thieves,  there  is  among  monsters;  and  Hardman  is  in  the 
same  scrape  as  ourselves — in  love — his  place  may  secure  him  the  hand 
of  the  lady.  But  mind — he's  not  to  know  I've  been  meddling  with  his 
affairs.     Hang  it  !  no  one  likes  that.     Not  a  word  then. 

Soft.  Not  a  word.  My  dear  Fred,  I'm  so  glad  you're  not  so  bad  as 
you  seem.  I'd  half  a  mind  to  desert  you;  but  I  have  not  the  heart; 
and  I'll  stick  by  you  as  long  as  I  live! 

Wil.  (aside).  Whew!  This  will  never  do  !  Poor  dear  little  fellow! 
I'm  sorry  to  lose  him  ;  but  my  word's  passed  to  Barbara,  and  'tis  all  for 
his  good,  (aloud)  As  long  as  you  live!  Alas  !  that  reminds  me  of  your 
little  affair.     I'm  to  be  your  second,  you  know. 

Soft.   Second  ! — affair  ! 

Wil.  With  that  fierce  Colonel  Flint.  I  warned  you  against  him  ;  but 
you  have  such  a  deuce  of  a  spirit.     Don't  you  remember  1 

Soft.  No;  why,  what  was  it  all  about  ? 

Wil.  Let  me  see — oh,  Flint  said  something  insolent  about  Mistress 
Barbara. 

Soft.  He  did  7     Ruffian  ! 

AVil.  So — you  called  him  out  !  But  if  you'll  empower  me  in  your 
name  to  retract  and  apologize 

Soft.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Insolent  to  Barbara  !  Dimidum  meat.  Pd  fight 
him  if  he  were  the  first  swordsman  in  England. 

Wil.  Why,  that's  just  what  he  is  ! 

Soft.   Don't  care;  I'm  his  man — though  a  dead  one. 

Wil.  (aside).  Hang  it — he's  as  brave  as  niy?elf  on  that  side  of  his 
character.  I  must  turn  to  another,  (aloud)  No,  Softhead,  that  was  not 
the  cause  of  the  quarrel — said  it  to  rouse  you,  as  you  seemed  rather 
low.  The  fact  is  that  it  was  a  jest  on  yourself  that  you  took  up  rather 
warmly. 

Soft.  AVas  that  all — only  myself  1 

Wil.   No  larger  subject ;  and  Flint  is  such  a  good  fencer  ! 

Soft.  My  dear  Fred,  I  retract,  I  apologize;  I  despise  duelling — ab- 
surd and  unchristianlike. 

Wil.  Leave  all  to  me.  Dismiss  the  subject.  I'll  settle  it ;  only,  Soft- 
head, you  see  our  set  has  very  stiff  rules  on  such  matters.  And  if  you 
apologize  to  a  bravo  like  Flint;  nay,  if  you  don't  actually,  cheerfully, 
rapturously  fight  him — though  sure  to  be  killed — I  fear  you  must  resign 
all  ideas  of  high  life  ! 

Soft.  Dimidum  me<e,  but  low  life  is  better  than  no  life  at  all ! 

Wil.  There's  no  denying  that  proposition.  It  will  console  you  to 
think  that  Mr.  Easy's  kind  side  is  Cheapside.  And  you  may  get  upon 
one  if  you  return  to  the  other. 

Soft.  1  was  thinking  so  when  you  found  me — thinking — (hesitatingly) 
But  to  leave  yon 

Wil.  Oh,  not  yet !  Retire  at  least  with  eclat.  Share  with  me  one 
grand,  crowning,  last,  daring,  and  desperate  adventure. 

Soft.  Deadman's  Lane  again,  I  suppose "?  I  thank  you  for  nothing. 
Fred,  I  have  long  been  your  faithful  follower,  (tvifh  emotion)  Now,  my 


ACT  V.J  XOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM.  45 

Lord,  I'm   your   humble   servant.*  (aside)  Barbara   will   comfort   me. 
She's  perhaps  at  Sir  Geoffrey's.  [Exit,  r.  1  e. 

Wil.  Well !  his  love  will  repay  him,  and  the  City  of  London  will  pie- 
sent  me  with  her  freedom,  in  a  gold  box,  for  restoring  her  prodigal  son 
to  her  Metropolitan  bosom.  Deadman's  Lane — that  was  an  adventure, 
indeed.  Lucy's  mother  still  living — implores  me  to  get  her  the  sight 
of  her  child.     Will  Lucy  believe  me?     Will 

Enter  Smart,  l.  1  e. 

Ha,  Smart!     Well— well  7     You— baffled  Sir  Geoffrey  7 
Smart.  He  was  out. 

Wil.  And  you  gave  the  young  lady  my  letter  7 
Smart.  Hist!  my  Lord,  it  so  affected  her — that — here  she  comes. 

[Exit  Smart,  r.  1  e. 
Enter  Lucy,  l.  1  e. 

Lucy.  Oh,  my  Lord,  is  this  true  1  Can  it  be?  A  mother  lives  !  Do 
you  wonder  that  I  forget  all  else  1 — that  1  am  here — and  with  but  one 
prayer,  lead  me  to  that  mother  !  She  says,  too,  she  has  been  slandered 
— blesses  me — that  my  heart  defended  her.  but — but — this  is  no  snare — 
you  do  not  deceive  me  ? 

Wil.  Deceive  you  !  Oh,  Lucy — I  have  a  sister  myself  at  the  hearth 
of  my  father. 

Lucy.  Forgive  me — lead  on — quick,  quick — oh,  mother,  mother  ! 

[Exeunt  Lucy  and  Wilmot,  r.  1  e. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— Old  Mill  near  the  Thames. 

Enter  Hardmak,  l.  1  e. 

Harp.  The  dispatch  to  the  Pretender,  {opening  it)  Ho!  Wilmot  is  in 
my  power  ;  here  ends  his  rivalry.  The  Duke's  life,  too,  in  exchange 
for  the  Memoir  !  No!  Fear  is  not  his  weak  point ;  but  can  this  haugh- 
tiest of  men  ever  yield  such  memorials  1  Even  admit  the  base  lie  of  his 
brother  1  Still  her  story  has  that  which  may  touch  him.  Since  I  have 
seen  her,  I  feel  sure  of  her  innocence.  The  Duke  comes  ;  now  all  de- 
pends on  my  chance  to  hit  the  right  side  of  a  character. 

Enter  Dcke  op  Middlesex,  r.  1  e. 

Duke.  Lord  Loftus  not  here  yet !     Strange  ! 
Hard.  My  Lord  Duke — forgive  this  intrusion  ! 

Dcke  (aside).  T'other  man  I  met  at  Lord  Wilmot's.  (aloud)  Sir,  your 
servant ;  I'm  somewhat  in  haste. 

Hard.  Still  I  presume  to  delay  your  Grace,  for  it  is  on  a  question  of 
*  honor. 

Duke.  Honor  !  that  goes  before  all !     Sir,  my  time  is  your  own. 
Hard    Your  Grace  is  the  head  of  a  house  whose  fame  is  a  part  of  our 

*  A  play  upon  words  plagiarised  from  Farquhar.  The  reader  must  regret  that 
the  author  had  not  the  courage  to  plagiarize  more  from  Farquhar. 


•40  NOT    SO    HAD    AS    WE    SK!  il.  [ACT  V. 

history ;  it  is  therefore  tli.it  I  speak  to  you  boldly,  since  it  may  be  that 
wrongs  were  inflicted  by  one  of  its  members 

Duke.   How,  sir ! 

Hard.  Assured  that  if  so  (and  should  it  be  still  in  your  poweri,  yoiir 
Grace  will  frankly  repair  them,  as  a  duty  you  took  with  the  ermine  and 
coronet. 

Duke.  You  speak  well,  sir.  (aside)  Very  much  like  a  gentleman  ! 

Hard.   Your  Grace  had  a  brother,  Lord  Homy  de  Mowbray. 

Duke.  Ah!     Sir,  to  the  point. 

Hard.  At  once,  my  Lord  Duke.  Many  years  ago  a  duel  took  place 
between  Lord  Henry  and  Sir  Geoffrey  Morland — your  Grace  knows  the 

cause. 

Duke.  Hem  !  yes  ;  a  lady — who — who 

Hard.  Was  banished  her  husband's  home  and  her  infant's  cradle  on 
account  of  suspicions  based,  my  Lord  Duke,  on — what  your  Grace  can- 
no:  wonder  that  the  husband  believed— the  word  of  a  Mowbray! 

Duke  (aside).  Villain!  (aloud)  But  what  became  of  the  husband,  never 
since  heard  of  ?     He 

Hard.  Fled  abroad  from  men's  tongues  and  dishonor.  He  did  Dot 
return  to  his  native  kind  til!  he  had  changed  for  another  the  name  that 
a  Mowbray  bad  blighted.     Unhappy  man!  he  still  lives. 

Duke.  And  the  lady— the  lady 

Hard.  Before  the  duel  had  gone  to  the  house  of  her  father,  who  was 
forced  that  very  day  to  fly  the  country.     His  life  was  in  danger. 

Duke,  Mow  ? 

Hard.    He  was  loyal  to  the  Stuarts,  and — a  plot  was  discovered. 

Duke.   Brave,  noble  gentleman!     Go  on,  sir. 

HARD.  Her  other  ties  wrenched  from  her,  his  daughter  went  with  him 
into  exile — his  stay,  his  hope,  his  all.  His  lands  were  confiscated.  She 
was  higb-boVn  ;  she  worked  for  a  father's  bread.  Conceive  yourself, 
my  Lord  Duke,  in  the  place  of  that  father — loyal  and  penniless  ;  noble; 
proscribed  ;  dependent  on  the  toils  of  a  daughter;  and  that  daughter's 
name  sullied  by 

Duke    A  word? 

Harp.  From  the  son  of  that  house  to  which  all  the  chivalry  of  Eng- 
land looked  for  example. 

Duke,  (aside).  Oh,  Heaven !  can  my  glory  thus  be  turned  to  my 
shame?  (aloud)  But  they  said  she  had  died,  sir. 

Hard.  When  her  father  had  gone  to  the  grave,  she  herself  spread  or 
sanctioned  that  rumor — for  she.  resolved  to  die  to  the  world.  She  en- 
tered a  convent,  prepared  to  take  the  noviciate — when  she  suddenly 
learned  that  a  person  had  been  inquiring  for  her  at  Paris,  who  slated 
that  Lord  Henry  de  Mowbray  had  left  behind  him  a  Memoir 

Dukk.  Ah  ! 

Hard.  Which  acquits  her.  She  learned,  too,  the  clue  to  her  husband 
— resolved  to  come  hither— arrived  six  days  since.  No  proof  of  her 
innocence  save  those  for  which  I  now  appeal  to  your  Grace  ! 

Duke  (aside).  0  pride,  be  my  succor  !  (aloud,  haughtily)  Appeal  to  me, 
sir — and  wherefore  ? 

Hard.  The  sole  evidence  alleged  against  this  lady  are  the  fact  of  a 
letter  sent  from  herself  to  Lord  Henry,  and  the  hoast  of  a  man  now  no 
more.  She  asserts  that  that  letter  would  establish  her  innocence.  Sl.e 
believes  that,  on  his  deathbed,  your  brother  retracted  his  boast,  and 
that  the  Memoir  he  left  will  atte.-t  to  its  falsehood. 

Duke.  Asserts — believes! — goon — go  on. 

Hard  No  my  Lord  Duke,  I  have  done.  I  know  that  that  letter, 
that  Memoir  exists;  that  they  are  now  in  your  hands.     If  her  assertion 


ACT  V.]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    AVE    SEEM.  47 

be  ,alse — if  they  prove  not  lier  innocence — a  word,  nay,  a  sign,  from  the 
chief  of  a  house  so  renowned  for  its  honor,  suffices.  I  take  my  leave, 
and  condemn  her.  But  if  her  story  be  true,  you  have  heard  the  last 
chance  of  a  wife  and  a  mother  to  be  restored  to  the  husband  she  loves 
and  forgives,  to  the  child  who  has  grown  into  womanhood  remote  from 
her  care  ;  and  these  blessings  I  pledged  her  by  my  faith  to  obtain  if 
that  letter,  that  Memoir,  should  prove  that  the  bor.st  was 

Duke.  A  lie,  sir,  a  lie,  a  black  lie  ! — the  coward's  worst  crime — a  lie 
on  the  fair  name  of  a  woman  !  Sir,  this  heat,  perhaps,  is  unseemly  ; 
thus  to  brand  my  own  brother  !  But  if  we,  the  peers  of  England,  and 
the  representatives  of  her  gentlemen,  can  hear,  can  think,  of  vile  things 
done,  whoever  the  doer,  with  calm  pulse  and  cold  heart — perish  our 
titles  ;  where  would  be  the  use  of  a  Duke  1 

Hakd.  (aside).  A  very  bright  side  of  his  character. 

Duke.  Sir,  you  are  right.  The  Memoir  you  speak  of  is  in  my  hands, 
and  with  it,  Lady  Morland's  own  letter.  Much  in  that  Memoir  relates 
to  myself;  and  so  galls  all  the  pride  I  am  said  to  possess,  that  not  ten 
minutes  since  methought  I  had  rather  my  duchy  were  forfeit  than  have 
exposed  its  contents  to  the  pity  or  laugh  of  a  stranger.  I  think  no  more 
of  myself.  A  woman  has  appealed  for  her  name  to  mine  honor  as  a 
man.     Now,  sir,  your  commands. 

Hard.  No  passage  is  needed,  save  that  which  acquits  Lady  Morland. 
Let  the  Memoir  stdl  rest  in  your  hands.  Condescend  but  to  bring  it 
forthwith  to  my  house ;  and  may  1  hope  that  my  Lord  Loftus  may  ac- 
company you — there  is  an  affair  of  moment  on  which  1  would  speak  to 
you  both. 

Duke.  Your  address,  sir.  (Hardman  gives  him  card)  I  will  but  return 
home  for  the  documents  and  proceed  at  once  to  your  house.  Hurry 
not;  I  will  wait.  Allow  me  to  take  your  hand,  sir.  You  know  how  to 
speak  to  the  heart  of  a  gentleman.  [Exit,  R.  1  e. 

Hard.  Yet  how  ignorant  we  are  of  men's  hearts  till  we  see  them 
lit  up  by  a  passion  !  This  noble  has  made  what  is  honor  so  clear  to  my 
eyes.  Let  me  pause — let  me  think — let  me  choose !  I  feel  as  if  I  stood 
at  the  crisis  of  life. 

Enter  Softhead,  l.  1  e. 

Soft,  (aside).  What  have  I  seen  ?  Where  go  1  Whom  consult  1  (sees 
Hardman)  Oh,  Mr.  Hardman  !  You're  a  friend  of  Lord  Wilmot's,  of 
Sir  Geoffrey's,  of  Lucy's  ? 

Hard.  Speak — quick — to  the  purpose. 

Soft.  On  my  way  to  Sir  Geoffrey's,  I  passed  by  a  house  of  the  most 
villainous  character,  (aside)  I  dare  not  say  how  Wilmot  himself  has  de- 
scribed it.  (aloud,  earnestly)  Oh,  sir,  you  know  Wilmot !  you  know  his 
sentiments  on  marriage.  I  saw  Wilmot  and  Lucy  Thornside  enter  that 
infamous  house — Deadman's  Lane  ! 

Hard,  (aside).  Deadman's  Lane  ?  He  takes  her  to  the  arms  of  her 
mother !  forestalls  ray  own  plan,  will  reap  my  reward.  Have  1  schemed, 
then,  for  him  ? — No,  by  yon  heavens  ! 

Soft.  1  ran  on  to  Sir  Geoffrey's — he  was  out. 

Hard,  (ivho  has  been  writing  in  his  tablets,  tears  out  a  page)  Take  this  to 
Justice  Kite's,  hard  by;  he  will  send  two  special  officers,  placed  at  the 
door,  Deadman's  Lane,  to  wait  my  instructions.  They  must  so  instantly 
— arrive  as  soon  as  myself.  Then  hasten  to  Mr.  Easy's ;  Sir  Geoffrey  is 
there.  Break  your  news  with  precaution,  and  bring  him  straight  to 
that  house.     Leave  the  rest  to  my  care.     Away  with  you,  quick. 


48  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    BEEM.  [ACI   V. 

Soft.  I  know  lie  will  kill  me !  But  I'm  right  And  when  I'm  right 
—  Dimidum  niece!  [Exit,  r   1  e. 

Hard.  Ho  !  lio  !  It  is  war!  My  choice  is  made.  I  am  armed  at  all 
points,  and  strike  for  the  victory.  [Exit,  l.  1  e. 

SCENE  II. — Apartment  in  the  house,  Deadman's  Lane. 

Lucy  and  Lady  Elli.nor  discovered  steated  r.  of  table,  Wilmot  l. 

Lady  E.  And  you  believe  me?  Dear  child — this  indeed  is  happiness. 
Ah  !  It  your  cruel  father 

Lucy.  Hush — he  will  believe  you.  too. 

Lady  E.  No  ;  I  could  not  venture  into  his  presence  without  the  proof 
that  he  had  wronged  me. 

Wil.  {rising).  Oil,  that  I  bad  known  before  what  interest  you  had  in 
this  Memoir  ! — how  can  I  recover  it  from  the  Duke  ? 

Lucy  (rising  and  approaching  him).  Yon  will  — you  must — dear — dear 
Lord  Wilmot — you  have  restored  me  to  my  mother;  restore  my  mother 
to  her  home,  (clasps  his  hand.) 

Wil.  Ah — and  this  hand — would  you  withdraw  it  then"? 

Lucy.  Never  from  him  who  reunites  my  parents. 

Lady  E.  {rising).  Ha  ' — a  voice  without — steps  ! 

Wil.  If  it  should  be  Sir  Geoffrey — in  some  rash  violence  he  might — 
Retire — quick — quick. 

[Exeunt  Lady  Elli.nor  and  Lucy  in  the  inner  room. 

Enter  Hardmax,  l.  3  e. 

Hard.  Alone!     Where  is  Lucy,  my  Lord  ? 

Wil.   In  the  next  room  with 

Hard.  Her  mother? 

Wil.  What!  you  know? 

Hard.  I  know  that  hot  ween  us  two  there  is  a  strife,  and  I  am  come 
to  decide  it ;  you  love  Lucy  Thornside 

Wil.  Well !  I  told  you  so. 

Hard.  You  told  it  my  Lord,  to  a  rival.  Ay,  smile.  You  have 
wealth,  rank,  fashion,  and  wit ;  I  have  none  of  the>e,  and  I  need  them 
not.  But  I  say  to  you,  (taking  ont  watch  and  looking  at  it)  that  ere  the 
hand  on  this  dial  moves  to  that  near  point  in  time,  your  love  will  be 
hopeless  and  your  suit  be  withdrawn. 

Wil.  The  man's  mad.  Unless,  sir,  you  wish  me  to  believe  that  my 
life  hangs  on  your  sword,  I  cannot  quite  comprehend  why  my  love 
should  go  by  your  watch. 

Hakd.  1  command  you,  Lord  Wilmot,  to  change  this  tone  of  levity  ; 
I  command  it  in  the  name  of  a  life  which,  I  think,  \rou  prize  more  than 
your  own — a  life  that  is  now  in  my  hands.  You  told  me  to  sound  your 
father.     I  have  not  done  so — I  have  detected 

Wil.  Detected!     Hold,  sir!  that  word  implies  crime 

Hard.  Ay,  the  crime  of  the  great.  History  calls  it  Zeal.  Law  styles 
it  High  Treason. 

Wil.  What  do  I  hear  ?  Heavens  ! — my  father  !  Sir,  your  word  is  no 
proof? 

Hard.  But  this  is  ?  {producing  the  acquisition  to  the  Pretender)  'Tis 
high  treason,  conspiring  to  levy  arms  against  the  Kimz  on  the  throne — 
hero  called  the  Usurper.  High  tieason  to  promise  to  greet  with  banner 
and  trump  a  pretender — here  called  James  the  Third.  Such  is  the 
purport  of  the  paper  I  hold — and  here  is  the  name  of  your  father. 


ACT  T.J  NOT    SO    1UD    AS    Wl!    SEEM.  49 

Wfl.  (aside).  Both  are  armed  and  alone,  (locks  tlie  outer  door  by  which  he 
is  standing. ) 

Hard,  (aside).  So,  I  guess  his  intention,  (crosses  to  r.,  and  opens  the 
icindow  and  looks  out)  Good,  the  officers  are  come. 

Wil.  What  the  law  calls  high  treason  I  know  not ;  what  the  honest 
call  treason  I  know.  Traitor,  thou  who  hast  used  the  confidence  of  a 
son  against  the  life  of  a  father,  thou  shalt  not  quit,  these  walls  with  that 
life  in  thy  grasp — yield  the  proof  thou  hast  plundered  or  forged,  (seizes 
him.) 

Hard.  'St!  the  officers  of  justice  are  below;  loose  thine  hold,  or  the 
life  thou  demandext  falls  from  these  hands  into  theirs. 

Wil.  (recoiling)  Foiled  !  Foiled !  How  act !  what  do  1  And  thy 
son  set  yon  bloodhound  on  thy  track,  0  my  father  !  Sir,  you  are  my 
rival ;   I  guess  the  terms  you  now  come  to  impose  ! 

Hard.  I  impose  no  terms.  What  needs  the  demand  1  Have  you  an 
option  1  I  think  better  of  you.  We  both  love  the  same  woman  ;  I 
have  loved  her  a  year,  you  a  week  ;  you  have  her  father's  dislike,  I  his 
consent.  One  must  yield — why  should  1 1  Ru  le  son  of  the  people 
though  I  be,  why  must  I  be  thrust  from  the  sunshine  because  you  cross 
my  path  as  the  fair  and  the  high-born  ]  What  have  I  owed  to  your  or- 
der or  you  1 

Wil.  To  me,  sir  ?  Well,  if  to  me  you  owed  some  slight  favor,  1 
should  scorn  at  this  moment  to  speak  it. 

Hard  1  owe  favor,  the  slightest,  to  no  man  ;  'tis  my  boast.  Listen 
still,  I  schemed  to  save  your  father,  not  to  injure.  Had  you  rather  this 
scroll  had  fallen  ftito  the  hands  of  a  spy  1  And  now,  if  I  place  it  in 
yours  — save  your  name  from  attainder,  your  fortunes  from  confiscation, 
your  father  from  the  axe  of  the  headsman — why  should  I  ask  terms  1 
Would  it  be  possible  for  you  to  say,  "  Sir,  1  thank  you;  and  in  return  I 
would  do  my  best  to  rob  your  life  of  the  woman  you  love,  and  whom  1 
have  just  known  a  week  V  Could  you,  peer's  son,  and  gentleman,  thus 
reply — when,  if  I  know  aught  of  this  grand  people  of  England,  not  a 
mechanic  who  walks  thro'  yon  streets,  from  the  loom  to  the  hovel,  but 
what  would  cry  "Shame!"  on  such  answer  1 

Wil.  Sir,  I  cannot  argue  with,  I  cannot  rival  the  man  who  has  my 
father's  life  at  his  will,  whether  to  offer  it  as  a  barter,  or  to  yield  it  as  a 
boon.  Either  way,  rivalry  between  us  is  henceforth  impossible.  Fear 
mine  no  more!     G've  me  the  scroll — I  depart. 

Hakd.  (aside).  His  manliness  moves  me!  (aloud)  Nay,  let  me  pray 
your  permission  to  give  it  myself  to  your  father,  and  with  such  words  as 
will  save  him,  and  others  whose  names  are  hereto  attached,  from  such 
perilous  hazards  in  future. 

Wil.  In  this,  too,  1  fear  that  you  leave  me  no  choice;  I  must  trust  as 
I  may  to  your  honor  !  but  heed  well  if 

Hard.   Menace  not ;  you  doubt,  then,  my  honor  1 

Wil.  (with  suppressed  passion).  Plainly,  1  do;  our  characters  differ.  I 
had  held  myself  dishonored  for  ever  if  our  positions  had  been  reversed 
— if  I  had  taken  such  confidence  as  was  placed  in  you — concealed  the 
rivalry — prepared  the  scheme— timed  the  moment — forced  the  condition 
in  the  guise  of  benefit.     No,  sir,  no;  that  may  be  talent,  it  is  not  honor. 

Hard,  (aside).  This  stings!  scornful  fool  that  he  is,  not  to  see  that  I 
was  half  relenting.  And  now  I  feel  but  the  foe  !  How  sting  asain  ?  I 
will  summon  him  back  to  witness  himself  my  triumph,  (aioud)  Stny,  my 
Lord  !  (writing  at  the  table)  You  doubt  that  I  should  yield  up  the  docu- 
ment to  your  father?  Bring  him  hither  at  once!  He  is  now  at  my 
house  with  the  Duke  of  Middlesex ;  pray  them  both  to  come  here,  and 
give  this  note  to  the  Duke,  (with  a  smile)  You  will  do  it,  my  Lord  1 


50  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM.  [ACT  V. 

Wil.  Ay,  indeed — and  when  my  father  is  safe,  I  will  try  to  think  that. 
I  wronged  you.  {aside)  And  not  one  parting  word  to — to — 'Sdeath — I 
am  unmanned.  Show  such  emotion  to  him — No,  no!  And  if  I  cannot 
watch  over  that  gentle  life,  why,  the  angels  will !  {aloud,  as  he  unlocks  the 
door)  I — I  go,  sir — fulfill  the  compact ;  I  have  paid  the  price. 

[Exit,  L.  D. 

Hard.  He  loves  her  more  than  I  thought  for.  But  she  ?  Does  she 
love  him  1  {goes  to  the  door  at  back)  Mistress  Lucy  !  {leads  forth  Lucy,  d.f.) 

Lucy.  Lord  Wilmot  gone  ! 

Hard.  Nay,  speak  not  of  him.  If  ever  he  hoped  that  your  father 
could  have  overcome  a  repugnance  to  his  suit,  he  is  now  compelled  to 
resign  that  hope,  and  for  ever.  (Lucy  turns  aside,  and  weeps  quietly)  Let 
us  speak  of  your  parents — your  mother 

Lucy.  0  i,  yes — my  dear  mother — I  so  love  her  already. 

Hard.  You  have  heard  her  tale  !  Would  you  restore  her,  no  blot  on 
her  name,  to  the  hearth  of  your  father"? 

Lucy.  Speak  ! — speak  ! — can  it  be  so  1 

Hard.  If  it  cost  you  some  sacrifice  ? 

Lucy.  Life  has  none  for  an  object  thus  holy. 

Hard.  Hear,  and  decide.  It  is  the  wish  of  your  father  that  J  should 
ask  for  this  hand 

Lucy.  No  ! — no  ! 

Hard.  Is  the  sacrifice  so  hard  !  Wait  and  hear  the  atonement.  You 
come  from  the  stolen  embrace  of  a  mother ;  I  will  make  that  mother 
the  pride  of  your  home.  You  have  yearned  for  the  love  of  a  father  ;  I 
will  break  down  the  wall  between  j  ourself  and  his  heart — I  will  dispel 
all  the  clouds  that  have  darkened  his  life. 

Lucy.  You  will  ? — you  will?     0  blessings  upon  you. 

Hard.  Those  blessings  this  hand  can  confer  ! 

Lucy.  But — but — the  heart — the  heart — that  docs  not  go  with  the  hand. 

Hard.  Later  it  will.  I  only  pray  for  a  trial.  I  ask  but  to  conquer 
that  heart,  not  to  break  it.  Your  father  will  soon  he  here — every  mo- 
ment I  expect  him.  He  comes  in  the  full  force  of  suspicion — deeming 
you  lured  here  by  Wilmot — fearing  (pardon  the  vile  word)  your  dis- 
honor. How  explain  ?  You  cannot  speak  of  your  mother  till  I  first 
provj  her  guiltless.  Could  they  meet  till  I  do,  words  would  pass  that 
would  make  even  union  hereafter  too  bitter  to  her  pride  as  a  wrornan. 
Give  me  the  power  at  once  to  destroy  suspicion,  remove  fear,  delay 
other  explanations.  Let  me  speak — let  me  act  as  your  betrothed,  your 
accepted.  Hark!  voices  below — your  father  comes!  I  have  no  time 
to  plead  ;  excuse  what  is  harsh — seems  ungenerous 

Sir  Geof.  (without,  l.).  Out  of  my  way  ! — loose  my  sword  ! 

Lucy.  Oh,  save  my  mother  !     Let  him  not  see  my  moiher  ! 

Hard.  Grant  me  this  trial — pledge  this  hand  now — retract  hereafter 
if  you  will.  Your  mother's  name — your  parents'  reunion  !  Ay  or  no  ! 
— will  you  pledge  it  ? 

Lucy.  Can  you  doubt  their  child's  answer  1     I  pledge  it ! 

Enter  Sir  Geoffrey,  l.  d.,  struggling  from  Easy,   Softhead,  and 
Barbara. 

Sir  Geof.  Where  is  he  1  where  is  this  villain  1  let  me  get  at  him  ! 
What,  what !  gone  1  {falling  on  Hardman's  breast)  Oh,  Hard  man!  You 
came,  you  came  !     I  dare  not  look  at  her  yet.     Is  she  saved  1 

Hard.  Your  daughter  is  innocent  in  thought  as  in  deed — I  speak  in 
the  name  of  the  rights  she  has  given  me  ;  you  permitted  me  to  ask  for 
her  hand,  and  here  she  has  pledged  it ! 


ACT  V.]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    AVE    SEEM.  51 

Sir  Geof.  {embracing  her).  0  my  child  !  my  child  !  I  never  called  you 
that  name  before.  Did  I  ?  Hush  !  I  know  now  that  thou  art  my  child 
— know  it  by  my  anguish— know  it  by  my  joy.  Who  could  wring  from 
me  tears  like  these  but  a  child? 

Easy.  But  how  is  it  all,  Mr.  Hardman  ?  you  know  everything!  That 
fool  Softhead,  with  his  cock-and-bull  story,  frightened  us  out  of  our  wits. 

Soft.  That's  the  thanks  I  get !     How  is  it  all,  Mr.  Hardman  i 

Sir  Geof.  Ugh,  what  so  clear  1  He  came  here— he  saved  her  !  My 
child  was  grateful.  Approach,  Hardman,  near,  near.  Forgive  me  if 
your  childhood  was  lonely  ;  forgive  me  if  you  seemed  so  unfriended. 
Your  father  made  me  promise  that  you  should  not  know  the  temptations 
that  he  thought  had  corrupted  himself— should  not  know  of  my  favors, 
to  be  galled  by  what  he  called  my  suspicions — should  not  feel  the  yoke 
of  dependence  ; — should  believe  that  you  forced  your  own  way  through 
the  world — till  it  was  made.  Now  it  is  so.  Ah,  not  in  vain  did  I  par- 
don him  his  wrongs  against  me;  not  in  vain  fulfill  that  sad  promise 
which  gave  a  smile  to  his  lips  in  dying ;  not  in  vain  have  I  bestowed 
benefits  on  you.  You  have  saved— 1  know  it — I  feel  it — saved  from  in- 
famy— my  child. 

Lucy.  Hush,  sir,  hush  !  (throws  herself  into  Barbara's  arms.) 

Hard.  My  father!  Benefits!  You  smile,  Mr.  Easy.  What  means 
he  !     No  man  on  this  earth  ever  bestowed  benefits  on  me  ! 

Easy.  Ha  !  ha!  ha!  Nay,  excuse  me;  but  when  I  think  that  that's 
said  by  a  clever  fellow  like  you — ha!  ha  ! — the  jest  is  too  good  ;  as  if 
any  one  ever  drove  a  coach  through  this  world  but  what  some  other  one 
built  the  carriage,  or  harnessed  the  horses  !  Why,  who  gave  you  the 
education  that  helped  to  make  you  what  you  are  ?  Who  slyly  paid  Ton- 
son,  the  publisher,  to  bring  out  the  work  that  first  raised  you  into  no- 
tice ?  Who  sent  you  the  broker  with  the  tale  of  the  South  Sea  Scheme  .' 
From  whose  purse  came  the  sum  that  bought  your  annuity?  Whose 
land  does  the  annuity  burthen  ?  Who  told  Fleece'em,  the  borough- 
monger,  to  offer  you  a  seat  in  Parliament?  Who  paid  for  the  election 
that  did  not  cost  you  a  shilling  ? — who,  but  my  suspicious,  ill-tempered, 
good-hearted  friend  there  ?  And  you  are  the  son  of  his  foster-brother, 
the  man  who  first  wronged  and  betrayed  him ! 

Soft.  And  this  is  the  gentleman  who  knows  everybody  and  every- 
thing <  Did  not  even  know  his  own  father  !  La  !  why,  he's  been  quite 
a  take-in  !     Ha !  ha ! 

Easy.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Hard.  And  all  the  while  I  thought  I  was  standing  apart  from  others 
— needing  none  ;  served  by  none  ;  mastering  men  ;  moulding  them — 
the  man  whom  my  father  had  wronged  went  before  me  with  noiseless 
beneficence,  and  opened  my  path  through  the  mountain  I  fancied  this 
right  hand  had  hewn  ! 

Sir  Geof.  Tut !  I  did  but  level  the  ground  ;  till  you  were  strong 
eno'  to  rise  of  yourself;  I  did  not  give  you  the  post  that  you  named  with 
so  manly  a  pride ;  J  did  not  raise  you  to  the  councils  of  your  country  as 
the  "  equal  of  all !" 

Soft.  No  !  for  that  you'll  thank  Fred.  He  bribed  the  Prime  Minister 
with  his  favorite  Murillo.  He  said  you  wanted  the  post  to  win  the  lady 
you-loved.  Dimidum  met -I  think  you  might  have  told  him  what  lady  it 
was. 

Hard.  So  !     Wilmot !     It  needed  but  this  ! 

Easy.  Pooh,  Mr.  Softhead !  Sir  Geoffrey  would  never  consent  to  a 
lord.  Quite  right.  Practical,  steady  fellow  is  Mr.  Hardman  ;  and  as  to 
his  father,  a  disreputable  connection — quite  right  not  to  know  him  !  All 
you  want,  Geoffrey,  is  to  secure  Lucy's  happiness. 


52  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM.  [ACT  V. 

Sir  Geof.  All!     That,  now,  is  his  charge. 

Hard.  I  accept  it.  But  first  1  secure  yours,  0  my  benefactor  !  This 
house,  in  which  you  feared  to  meet  infamy,  is  the  home  of  sorrow  and 
virtue  ;  the  home  of  a  woman  unsullied,  but  slandered — of  her  who,  lov- 
ing you  still,  followed  your  footsteps  ;  watched  you  night  and  day  from 
yon  windows ;  sent  you  those  flowers,  the  tokens  of  innocence  and 
youth  ;  in  romance,  it  is  true — the  romance  only  known  to  a  woman — the 
romance  only  known  to  the  pure  !  Lord  Wilmot  is  guiltless  !  He  led 
your  child  to  the  arms  of  a  mi  ther. 

Sir  Geof.  Silence  him! — silence  him  ! — 'tis  a  snare!  I  retract!  He 
shall  not  have  this  girl !  Her  house!  Do  I  breathe  the  same  air  as  the 
woman  so  loved  and  so  faithless  1 

Lucy.  Pity,  for  my  mother  !  No,  no  ;  justice  for  her  !  Pity  for  yourself 
and  lor  me! 

Sin  Geof.  Come  away,  or  you  shall  not  be  my  child,  I'll  disown  you. 
That  man  speaks 

Enter  Wilmot,  Duke,  with  portfolio  and  papers,  and  Lord  Loftus,  l.  d. 

Hard.  I  speak,  and  I  prove,  (to  the  Duke)  The  Memoirs,  (giant  ing 
over  them)  Here  is  the  very  letter  that  the  menial  informed  you  your 
wife  sent  to  Lord  Heriiy.  Read  it,  and  judge  if  such  scorn  would  not 
goad  such  a  man  to  revenge.  What  revenge  could  he  wield  1  Why,  a 
boast ! 

Sir  Geof.  (reading).  The  date  of  the  very  day  that  he  boasted.  Ha, 
brave  words!  proud  heart!     I  suspect! — I  suspect  ! 

Hard.  Lord  Henry's  confession.     It  was  writ  on  his  deathbed. 

Lof.  'Tis  his  hand.     I  attest  it. 

Duke.  I,  too,  John,  Duke  of  Middlesex. 

Sir  Geof.  (who  has  lien  reading  the  confession).  Heaven  forgive  me  ! 
Can  she  ?  The  flowers  ;  the  figures;  the — How  blind  I've  been  !  Where 
is  shel  where  is  she  ?  Yon  said  she  was  here  !  (Lady  Ellinor  appears  at 
r>.  f.)  Ellinor  !  Ellinor  !  to  my  arms — to  my  heart — 0,  my  wife  !  Par- 
i.on  !     Pardon!  (embracing  her  rapturously.) 

Lady  E.  Nay,  all  was  forgiven  when  I  once  more  embraced  our  child. 

Hard,  (to  Loftus  and  Duke).  My  Lord,  destroy  this  Requisition  ! 
When  you  signed  it,  you  doubtless  believed  that  the  Prince  you  would 
serve  was  of  the  Church  of  your  Proiestant  lathers'?  You  are  safe 
evermore  ;  for  your  honor  is  freed.  The  Prince  has  retired  to  Rome, 
and  abjured  your  faith.  I  will  convince  you  of  this  later.  (Duke  and 
Softhead  continue  to  slum  each  other  with  mutual  apprehension.) 

Easy  (to  Wilmot).  Glad  to  find  you  are  not  so  bad  as  you  seemed, 
my  Lord;  and  now  that  Lucy  is  encased  to  Mr.  Hard  man 

Wil.  Engaged  already  !  (aside)  So  !  he  asked  me  here  to  insult  me 
with  his  triumph  !  (aloud)  Well ! 

Hard.  Lucy,  your  parents  are  united — my  promise  fulfilled  ;  permit 
me — {takes  her  hand)  Sir  Geoffrey,  the  son  of  him  who  so  wronged  you, 
and  whose  wrongs  you  pardoned,  now  reminds  you,  that  he  is  entrusted 
with  the  charge  to  ensure  the  happiness  of  your  child  !  Behold  the  man 
of  her  choice,  and  take  from  his  presence  your  own  cure  of  distrust. 
With  his  faults  on  the  surface,  and  with  no  fault  that  is  worse  than.that 
of  concealing  his  virtues; — Here  she  loves  and  is  loved  !  And  thus  I 
discharge  the  trust,  and  ensure  the  happiness  !  (takes  Lucy's  hand  and 
places  it  in  Wilmot's.) 

Sir  Grof.  How  1 

Lady  E.  It  is  true — do  you  not  read  in  her  blush  the  secret  of  her 
heart  ? 


ACT  v.]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    "WE    SEEM.  53 

Wil.  How  can  I  r.ccept  at  the  price  of 

Hard.  Hush  !  For  the  third  time  to-day,  you  have  but  one  option. 
You  cannot  affect  to  be  generous  to  me  at  the  cost  of  a  heart  all  your 
own  Take  your  right..  Come,  my  Lord,  lest  1  tell  all  the  world  how 
vou  bribed  the  Prime  Minister. 

"  Soft,  (who  has  taken  Easy  aside).  But,  indeed,  Mr.  Easy,  I  reform  ; 
I  repent.  Mr.  Hardman  will  have  a  bride  in  the  country — let  me  have 
a  bride  in  the  city.     After  all,  1  was  not  such  a  very  bad  monster. 

Easy.  Pooh  !  Wou't  hear  of  it !  Want  to  marry  only  just  to  mimic 
mv  Lord. 

Bar.  Dear  Lord  Wilmot ;  do  say  a  good  word  for  us. 

Easy.  No,  sir  ;  no!     Your  head's  been  turned  by  a  lord. 

Wil.  Not  the  first  man  whose  head  has  been  turned  by  a  lord,  with 
the  help  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy— eh,  Mr.  Easy  !  I  U  just  appeal  to 
Sir  Geoffrey. 

Easy.  No— no— hold  your  tongue,  my  Lord. 

Wil.  And  y<  u  insisted  upon  giving  your  daughter  to  Mr.  Softhead  ; 
forced  her  upon  him. 

Easy.  I— nevei  !     When1? 

Wil.  Last  ni^ht,  when  you  were  chaired  member  for  the  City  ot 
London.     I'll  just  explain  Ihe  case  to  Sir  Geoffrey 

Easy.  Confound   it— hold— hold  !     You  like  this   young   reprobate, 

Barbara  1 

Bar.  Dear  papa,  his  health  is  so  delicate.     I  should  like  to  take  care 

of  him. 

Easy.  There  go,  and  take  care  of  each  other.  Ha  !  ha !  I  suppose 
it  ii  all  for  the  best. 

D-oke  takes  forth,  and  puts  on,  his  spectacles  ;  examines  Softhead  curiously 
—is  convinced  that  he  is  human,  approaches,  and  offers  his  hand,  which 
Softhead,  emboldened  by  Baubara,   though  not   without  misgivings, 

•    accepts (/wDukg  shakes  h>'s  hand — does  the  same  with  Barbara,  and 

passes  to  the  left  where  Lord  Lqftvs  joins  him. 

A  great  deal  of  dry  stuff,  called  philosophy,  is  written  about  life.  But 
the" grand  thing  is  to  take  it  coolly,  and  have  a  good-humored  indul- 
gence  

Wil.   For  the  force  of  example,  Mr.  Easy,    (bowing  to  him.) 

Soft.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Wil.  For  the  follies  of  fashion,  and  the  crimes  of  monsters  like  my- 
self, and  that  terrible  Softhead! 

Sir  Geof.  Ha!  ha! 

Hard.  You  see,  my  dear  Wilmot,  many  sides  to  a  character  ! 

Wil.  Plague  on  it,  yes  !  But  get  at  them  all,  and  we're  not  so  bad 
as  we  seem 

Soft'.  No,  Fred,  not  quite  so  bad. 

WriL.  Taking  us  as  we  stand — Altogether  ! 

Position  of  Characters. 

Wilmot  and  Lucy.        Hardman.        Softhead  and  Barbara. 

Sir  Geoffrey  and  Lady  Ellinor.     Easy.     Duke  and  Lord  Loftus. 

CURTAIN. 


54  NOI    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM. 

"DAVID  FALLEN  IS  DEAD!,: 
OR,  A  KEY  TO  THE  PLAY. 

(an  after  scene  by  way  of  an  EPILOGUE.) 

{Intended  to  have  been  spoken  by  the  Original  Amateur  Performers.) 


SCENE. — Wilmot's   Apartment.     Wilmot,  Sir    Geoffrey,  Softhead, 
Easy,  and  Hardman,  seated  at  a  table.      Wine,  fruits,  etc. 

Wil.  Pass  the  wine — what's  the  news  1 

Easy.  Funds  have  risen  to-day. 

Sir  Geof.  I  suspect  it  will  rain. 

Easy.  Well,  I've  got  in  my  hay. 

Hard.  David  Fallen  is  dead  ! 

Omxes.  David  Fallen  ! 

Wil.  Poor  fellow  ! 

Sir  Geof.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him  ! 

Soft.  1  saw  him  !     So  yellow  ! 

Hard.  Your  annuity  killed  him  ! 

Wil.  How  1 — how  ?  to  the  point. 

Hard.  By  the  shock  on  his  nerves — at  the  sight  of  a  joint. 

A  very  great  genius 

Easy.  I  own — now  he's  dead, 

That  a  writer  more  charming 

Wil.  Was  never  worse  fed  ! 

Hard.  His  country  was  grateful 

Soft,  (surprised).  He  looked  very  shabby! 

Hard.  His  bonei 

Soft.  You  might  count  them  ! -i 

Hard.  Repose  in  the  Abbey  ! 

Soft,  {after  a  stare  of  astonishment).  So  thai  is  the  way  that  a  country  is 
grateful ! 

Ere  his  nerves  grew  so  weak — if  she'd  sent  him  a  plateful. 
Easy    (hastily  producing  a  long  paper).  My  Taxes  ! 

Your  notions  are  perfectly  hateful  !   (pause.     Evident  feeling  that 
there's  no  getting  over  Mr.  Easy's  paper.) 
Wil     Pope's  epigram  stung  him. 

Hard.  Yes,  Pope  has  a  sting. 

Wil     But  who  writes  the  epitaph  7 

Hard.  Pope  ;  a  sweet  thing  ! 

Wil.    'Gad,  if  I  were  an  author,  I'd  rather,  instead, 

Have  the  epitaph  living — the  epigram  dead. 

If  Pope  had  but  just  reconsidered  that  matter, 

Poor  David 

Soft.  Had  gone  to  the  Abbey  mucli  fatter  ! 

Easy.  He  was  rather  a  scamp  ! 

Wil.  Put  yourself  in  his  place. 


not  so  bad  as   \ve  seem.  55 

Easy  {horror-struck).  Heaven  forbid  ! 

Hard.  Let  us  deem  him  the  Last  of  a  R.iee  ! 

Sue  Geof.  But  the  race  that  succeeds  may  have  little  more  pelf. 
Hard.  Ay  ;  and  trials  as  sharp.     I'm  an  author  myself. 

But  the  remedy  1     Wherefore  should  authors  not  build 

East.  An  almshouse  ? 

Hard.  No,  merchant,  their  own  noble  guild  ! 

Some  fortress  for  youth  in  the  battle  for  fame; 
*  Some  shelter  that  Age  is  not  humbled  to  claim  ; 

Some  roof  from  the  storm  for  the  Pilgrim  of  Knowledge. 
Wil.    Not  unlike  what  our  ancestors  meant  by — a  College  ; 

Where  teacher  and  student  alike  the  subscriber, 

Untaxing  the  Patron 

East.  The  State 

Hard.  Or  the  briber 

Wil.    The  son  of  proud  Learning  shall  knock  at  the  door 

And  cry  This*  is  rich,  and  not  whine  That\  is  poor. 
Hard.  Oh  right !     For  these  men  govern  earth  from  their  graves — 

Shall  the  dead  be  as  kings,  and  the  living  as  slaves  1 
Easy.  It  is  all  their  own  fault — they  so  slave  one  another  ; 

Not  a  son  of  proud  Learning  but  knocks — down  his  brother  ! 
Wil.    Yes !  other  vocations,  from  Thames  to  the  Border, 

Have  some  esprit  de  corps,  and  some  pride  in  their  order  ; 

Lawyers,  soldiers,  and  doctors,  if  quarrels  do  pass, 

Still  soften  their  spite  from  respect  to  their  class  ; 

Why  should  authors  be  spitting  and  scratching  like  tabbies, 

To  leave  but  dry  bones 

Soft.  For  those  grateful  cold  Abbeys  1 

Hard.    Worst  side  of  their  character  ! 

Wil.  True  to  the  letter. 

Are  their  sides,  then,  so  fat,  we  can't  hit  on  a  better  ? 
Hard.  Why — the  sticks  in  the  fable  — our  Guild  be  the  tether. 
Wil.    Ay;  the  thorns  are  rubbed  off  when  the  sticks  cling  together. 
Soft,  {musingly).  I  could  be — yes— I  could  be  a  Pilgrim  of  Knowledge, 

If  you'd  change  Deadman's  Lane  to  a  snug  little  College. 
Sir  Geof.  Ugh  !  stuff— it  takes  money  a  College  to  found. 
Easy.  I  will  head  the  subscription  myself — with  a  pound. 
Hard.  Quite  enough  from  a  friend  ;  for  we  authors  should  feel 

We  must  put  our  own  shoulders  like  men  to  the  wheel. 

Be  thrifty  when  thriving — take  heed  of  the  morrow 

Easy.  And  not  get  in  debt 

Sir  Geof.  Where  the  deuce  could  they  borrow  1 

Hard.  Let  us  think  of  a  scheme. 

Easy.  He  is  always  so  knowing. 

Wil.    A  scheme!     I  have  got  one  ;  the  wheel's  set  a-going  ! 

A  play  from  one  author. 

Hard.  With  authors  for  actors 

Wil.    And  some  benefit  nights 

Both.  n  For  the  world's  benefactors. 

Sir  Geof.  Who'll  give  you  the  play  ?  it  will  not  be  worth  giving, 

Authors  now  are  so  bad  ;  always  are  while  they're  living  ! 

Easy.  Ah  !  if  D.ivid  Fallen,  great  genius,  were  he 

Omnns.  Great  genius! 

Hakd.  A  man  whom  all  time  shall  revere ; 

Soft,  {impatiently).  But  he's  dead. 

*  The  head.  t  The  pocket. 


56  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM. 

Omnes.  {lugubriously).  He  is  dead  ! 

Easy.  The  true  Classical  School,  si:  ! 

Ah  !  could  he  come  back  ! 
Wil.  He'll  not  be  such  a  fool,  sir.  {taking 

Hardman  aside,  whispers.) 

We  know  of  an  author. 
Hard,  (doubtfully).  Ye — s — s,  David  was  brighter. 

Omnes.  But  he  s  dead  ! 

Hard.  Tliis  might  do — as  a  live  sort  of  writer. 

Easy.  Alive  !  that  looks  bad. 

Soft.  Must  we  take  a  live  man  1 

Wil.     To  oblige  us  he'll  be,  sir — as  dead  as  he,  can  ! 
Soft.  Alive  ;  and  will  write,  sir  » 
Hard.  With  pleasure,  sir. 

Soft.  Pleasure ! 

Hakd.  With  less  than  your  wit,  he  has  more  than  your  leisure. 

Coquettes  with  the  Muse 

Sir  Geof.  Lucky  dog  to  afford  her ! 

Wil.     Can  we  get  his  good  side  ? 

Hakd.  Yes,  he's  proud  of  his  order. 

Wil.     Then  he'll  do! 

Sir  Geof.  As  for  wit — he  has  books  on  his  shelves. 

Hard.  Now  the  actors  1 

Wil.  By  Jove,  we'll  act  it  ourselves.  (Omnes  atjirst 

surprised  into  enthusiasm,  succeeded  by  great  consternation) 
Sir  Geof.  Ugh,  not  I  ! 
Soft.  Lord  ha'  mercy  ! 

Easy.  A  plain,  sober,  steady 

Wil.     I'll  appeal  to  Sir  Geoffrey.     There's  one  caught  already  ! 

This  suspicious  old  knight;  to  his  blind  side  direct  us. 

Hard.  Your  part  is  to  act 

Wil.  True  ;  and  his  to  suspect  us. 

I  rely  upon  you. 
Hard,  {looking  at  his  watch).  Me !  I  have  not  a  minute  ! 
Wil.     If  the  play  has  a  plot,  he  is  sure  to  be  in  it. 

Come,  Softhead  ! 
Soft.  I  won't.     I'll  go  home  to  my  mother. 

Wil.     Pooh !  monsters  like  us  always  help  one  another. 
Sir  Geof.  I  suspect  you  will  act. 
Soft.  Well,  I've  this  consolation — 

Still  to  imitate  one 

Hard.  Who  defies  imitation. 

Wil.     Let  the  public  but  favor  the  plan  we  have  hit  on, 

And  we'll  chair  through  all  London — our  Family  Briton. 

Sir  Geof.  What  1 — what  ?    Look  at  Easy  I    He's  drunk,  or  I  dream 

Easy    (rising).  The  toast  of  the  evening — Success  to  the  Scheme. 

CURTAIN. 


THE 

DUCHESS  DE  LA  YALLIERE. 

COPVBIGHT,  1875,  BY  RoBEHT   M.  De  "WlTT. 


THE    DUCHESS    DE    LA    YALLIEKE. 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS. 


Theatre.  Royal,  Covent    Parle  Theatre,  Nexu 
Garden,  London,  York,  Mai/ 

Jan.  4,  1837.  13,  1887. 

Louis  the  Fourteenth,  King  of  France  ..Mr.  Vandenhoff.      Mr.  Mason. 

The  Duke  de  Lauzun Mr.  W.  Farren.         Mr.  Chippendale. 

The  Count  de  Gramraont Mr.  Fritchard.  Mr.  Nixsen. 

The   Marquis   Alphonso   de    Bragelone 

(Betrothed  to  Louise  de  la  Valliere)Mr.  Macready.  Mr.  Fredericks. 

Bertrand  (Armorer  to  the  Marquis) Mr.  Tilbury.  Mr.  Isherwood. 

Gentleman  in  Attendance Mr.  Russell. 

First,  Second,  and  Third  Courtiers 

Maria  Theresa,  Queeen  of  France Mrs.  Archer. 

Louise  (afterwards  Duchess)  de  la  ValliereMiss  Helen  Faucit.  Miss  Ellen  Tree. 

Madame  de  la  Valliere  (her  mother) Mrs.  "W  "West.  Mrs.  Wheatleigh. 

Madame    de  Montespan  (Rival  of   the 

Duchess,  and  one  of   the  King's 

Mistresses Miss  Telham.  Mrs.  Durie. 

First,  Second,  and  Third  Ladies  of  the 

Court  and  Maids  of  Honor  to  the 

Queen 

The  Lady  Abbess  (Superioress  of   the 

Convent  of  the  Carmelites) 

Courtiers,  Gentleman  of  the  Chamber,  Priests,  Nuns,  Ladies,  Maids  of  Honor,  etc. 


TIME  IN  REPRESENTATION— THREE  HOURS  AND  THIRTY  MINUTES. 


SCENE.— The  Chateau  de  la  Valliere  some  leagues  from  Paris  ;  the  Palaces  of 
Fontainebleau  and  Versailles  ;  and  the  Convent  of  the  Carmelites  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Chateau. 


PERIOD— 1672-1674. 


SCENERY. 

ACT  I.,  Scene  J.— The  Chateau  de  la  Valliere  and  Convent  of  the  Carmelites  in 
the  distance.  In  a  slanting  direction,  l.,  the  entrance  and  a  part  of  the  buildings 
of  an  old  Chateau  ;  the  back  scene  represents  woods  and  vineyards,  and  through  the 
openings  a  river.  The  turrets  of  the  Carmelite  Convent  are  seen  at  the  back,  r.,  in 
the  distance. 

Scene  //.—Armory  in  the  Castle  of  Bragelone.  The  fiats  in  the  second  grooves 
represent  heavy  grained  stone  archways  and  pillars,  upon  which  appear  to  be  hang- 
ing various  pieces  of  armor  and  different  weapons. 

Scene  ///.—Antechamber  in  the  Palace  of  Fontainebleau.  The  flats  in  the  sec- 
ond grooves  represent  the  interior  of  a  rich -apartment. 

Scene  IV.— Gardens  of  the  Palace  of  Fontainebleau.  The  stage  is  thrown  open  to 
the  full  extent  ;  the  wings  represent  branches  of  trees  hung  with  colored  lamps- 
vases  of  flowers  on  pedestals  are  placed,  at  pleasure,  about  the  stage  ;  the  flats  rep- 
resent in  perspective  a  continuation  of  the  gardens,  'with  fountains.  In  the  centre, 
at  the  upper  part  of  the  stage,  a  large  pavilion,  with  gilded  pillars  and  dome  with 
trellis-work.  It  is  made  to  open  out,  and  when  open  there  is  seen  inside  a  figure 
representing  the  Goddess  of  Fortune  with'an  illuminated  wheel  at  her  feet— at  either 
side  of  her  a  gilt  vase,  over  which  preside  two  figures  emblematical  of  Merit  and 
Honor. 

ACT  11.,  Scene  /.—Gardens  of  the  Palace  of  Fontainebleau.    The  flats  in  the  third 


THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIKRE.  .3 

grooves  represent,  in  perspective,  beautiful  gardens,  fountains,  statuary,  etc.  The 
wings  in  the  second  grooves  project  some  distance  on  the  stage,  and  are  cut  repre- 
senting slender  trees  entwining.     A  rustic  bench  in  a  slanting  position,  l.  2  E. 

Scene  II.—  Cabinet  of  the  King  at  Fontainebleau.  The  flats  in  the  fourth  grooves 
represent  a  richly  decorated  aparlment.  An  antique  table,  o.,  far  back  so  as  to  al- 
low of  the  next  scene  closing  in— papers  and  writing  materials  on  the  table — chairs 
B.  and  i .  of  table. 

Scene  111.— Cloisters  of  a  Convent.  The  flats  representing  heavy  stone  walls  close 
in  on  the  third  grooves.  Long  windows,  through  which  flashes  of  lightning  are 
seen. 

ACT  III,  Scene  A— Antechamber  in  the  Palace  of  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere  at 
Versailles.  The  flats  in  the  second  grooves  represent  the  interior  of  a  handsome 
apartment. 

Scene  II.— Saloon  in  the  King's  Palace.  The  flats  in  the  fourth  grooves  represent 
a  magnificently  decorated  room.  An  arched  entrance,  c,  with  rich  heavy  curtains. 
Doors  r.  2  e.  and  l.  2  e.  A  richly-gilded  table,  b.,  with  chess-board  and  pieces — 
chairs  to  match  r.  and  l.  of  table.  Another  table,  l.,  with  writing  materials  upon 
it,  and  two  chairs.     A  candelabra  lighted  upon  each  table. 

Scene  III. — The  Gardens  of  Versailles.  The  flats  as  in  Act  II.,  Scene  I.,  placed 
in  the  second  grooves. 

Scene  IV.— Grand  Saloon  in  the  Palace  of  Versailles.  The  flats  in  the  fourth 
grooves  represent  a  magnificent  apartment ;  a  large  archway,  c,  beyond  which,  rep- 
resented in  perspective,  a  suite  of  apartments  of  similar  style. 

ACT IV.,  Scene  7.— The  Gardens  at  Versailles.  The  flats,  as  in  Act  II.,  Scene  I., 
placed  in  the  second  grooves. 

Scene  II.— Private  apartment  in  the  Palace  of  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere.  A 
richly-decorated  saloon  ;  the  flats  in  the  fourth  grooves.  Folding  doors  o.  Doors 
L.  3  k.  and  r.  3  e.     Small  gilt  tables  and  chairs  b.  and  l.,  opposite  the  doors. 

ACT  V.,  Scene  I. — The  Gardens  at  Versailles.  Same  as  Act  IV.,  Scene  I.,  but  in 
the  front  grooves. 

Scene  II. — The  old  Chateau  de  la  Valliere.    The  same  as  Act  I.,  Scene  I. 

Scene  III. — Exterior  of  the  Convent  of  the  Carmelites.  The  flats  in  the  second 
grooves  represent  the  Gothic  entrance  of  the  Convent.  Massive  doors,  c,  partially 
open.     Windows  illumined  r.  and  L. 

Scene  IF.— Interior  of  the  Chapel  of  the  Carmelite  Convent.  The  whole  stage  is 
thrown  open,  and  represents  the  pillared  and  vaulted  aisles  of  a  Gothic  chapel.  In 
the  centre  at  the  back  appears  the  altar,  with  raised  steps  approaching  to  it,  fitted 
up  in  a  gorgeous  manner  with  figures,  etc.,  lit  up  with  tapers  ;  from  the  arched  roof 
hang  down  lights ;  priests  and  officials  walk  to  and  fro  swinging  censers. 


PROPERTIES. 


ACT  I.,  Scene  1.— Bell  to  sound  for  vespers.  Scene  2.— Long  and  heavy  sword  for 
Bebtuand  ;  letter  for  servant ;  bugle.  Scene  4.— Various  jewels  and  rich  orna- 
ments, a  heavy  diamond  bracelet ;  vases,  flowers,  and  pedestals  ;  colored  lamps. 

A  CT II.,  Scene  1. — Rustic  bench  ;  miniature  handsomely  set  with  jewels.  Scene  2. — 
An  antique  table  and  two  chairs ;  papers  and  writing  materials.  Folded  parch- 
ment for  the  King.     Scene  3. — Tolling  bell ;  trumpet ;  thunder  ;  lightning. 

ACT  111.,  Scene  1.— Two  richly-gilded  tables  and  four  chairs;  chess-board  and 
pieces;  two  candelabras,  lighted ;  writing  materials  ;  letter.  Scene  4.— Folded 
parchment  for  memorial. 

ACT  IV.,  Scene  1. — Two  small  gilt  tables  ;  four  chairs  ;  faded  scarf  for  Bbagklone  ; 
golden  goblet  and  salver. 

ACT  V.,  Scene  2.— Bell  for  vespers ;  glove  for  Duchess.  Scene  3.— Letter  for  Lau- 
zun.  Scene  4.— Organ  ;  swinging  censers  with  incense ;  lights  suspended  along 
the  aisle,  and  tapers  placed  on  and  about  the  altar. 


4  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIERE. 

COSTUMES. 

Compiled  expressly  for  this  Edition  from  the  best  French  authorities. 

Louis. — A  richly-embroidered  purple  velvet  loose  waistcoat,  or  jacket  body  without 
sleeves,  fastened  at  the  throat  and  loose  downwards  ;  rich  lace  collar,  full  lawn 
shirt,  sleeves  puffed  with  purple  ribbons  and  finished  with  lace  ruffles;  a  short 
skirt  of  purple  velvet,  with  embroidery  and  lace  fringed  at  the  bottom  ;  full  leg- 
gings of  black  silk  ;  high-heeled  shoes  ;  bands  of  purple  satin  ribbon  gartered 
round  the  knees,  with  rosettes  or  drooping  ends,  and  bows  or  rosettes  on  shoes. 
Auburn  colored  hair  in  long  ringlets.  A  richly-embroiderel  sash  from  the  left 
shoulder  to  below  the  right  hip,  from  which  hangs  a  rich  court  sword  in  an  al- 
most horizontal  position.  Broad  hat  with  feathers  on  either  side.  The  Order 
of  Saint  Esprit  on  left  breast.  An  embroidered  overcloak  trimmed  with  ermine 
in  Act  2,  Scene  3,  and  in  Act  5. 

Lauzun. — Short  velvet  coat  (any  color),  with  embroidered  cuffs,  rich  lace  ruffles  and 
collar,  with  silk  bows.  Long  curl  wig.  Hat  wide,  and  partially  looped  up  on 
one  side,  with  feathers.  A  gold  embroidered  silk  sash  from  the  right  shoulder 
to  low  down  on  the  left  hip,  from  which  hangs  a  court  sword  in  an  almost  hori- 
zontal position.  Silk  stocking*  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  large  silk  bows.  An 
overcloak  in  Act  2,  Scene  3,  and  in  Act  6,  Scene  3  and  last  Scene. 

De  Grammont.— A  Similar  dress. 

Bragelone. — Act  1 :  Suit  of  plain  armor,  consisting  of  coat  of  mail,  with  half 
sleeves,  thigh  pieces,  and  buff  leather  arm  pieces,  and  leggings  and  garters  with 
buff  leather  shoes,  and  spurs ;  steel  helmet,  with  vizor  raised  ;  sword  and  cross- 
belt.  Act  2,  Scene  1 :  Rich  blue  velvet  coat  embroidered  with  gold  both  back 
and  front  and  round  the  cuffs,  with  large  lace  ruffles  and  collar.  An  under-skirt 
of  silk.  Full  and  loose  half-breeches  of  silk,  fastened  at  the  knee  with  garters 
of  colored  silk  and  long  ends  or  rosettes.  Silk  stockings  and  high-heeled  shoes, 
with  broad  lappets  or  rosettes  of  silk.  Long  curl  wig,  and  hat  slightly  looped 
up,  with  fe.ithers.  Richly  embroidered  sash,  reaching  across  to  left  hip,  and 
sword  hanging  almost  horizontally.  Act  4  :  A  monk's  lon<^  gown  of  dark  serge, 
fastened  round  the  waist  with  a  band  of  same  material;  black  stockings  and 
sandals  ;  cowl  to  gown,  and  bald  wig. 

Bertrand. — Buff  leather  jerkin  and  breeches;  gaiters  and  high-heeled  shoes,  lace 
collar,  waist-belt,  and  short  wig. 

Gentleman. — A  loose  coat  of  velvet,  embroidered,  and  reaching  to  the  knees,  with 
sleeves  embroidered  and  looped  with  ribbons;  loose  and  full  half-breeches, 
stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  lappets  or  bows  ;  long  curl  wig. 

Courtiers. — Similar  dresses  to  Lauzun  and  Bragelone,  but  not  of  such  rich  de- 
scription. The  dresses  should  be  varied,  however,  by  some  of  them  wearing 
silk  tights  and  large  deep  lace  ruffles  round  the  knees.  The  hair  in  curls ;  shoes 
and  rosettes;  swords. 

Priests.— Long  and  lull  black  gown=,  with  tight  sleeves,  over  which  are  suspended 
lawn  robes,  fastened  at  the  neck,  with  large  sleeves  ;  some  of  them  weiring 
slightly  embroidered  or  ornamental  robes  ;  silk  stockings  and  sandals  ;  full  hair. 

Louise. — Act  1,  Scene  1 ;  Plain  velvet  bodice  with  lace  up  the  front,  loose  sleeves, 
with  muslin  under  sleeves ;  long  sweeping  skirt.  Sleeves  and  neck  trimmed 
with  lace;  bracelets  and  necklace;  hair  in  curls;  low  hat  and  feathers;  rich 
silk  scarf.  Scene  4:  A  handsome  velvet  bodice  with  gold  embroidery,  trimmed 
at  neck  and  sleeves  with  lace  and  ribbons;  long  skirt  of  blue  silk  richly  orna- 
mented with  gold,  embroidery  and  puffings  of  ribbons ;  high-heeled  shoes  and 
rosettes  ;  hair  in  curls.  Act  2,  Scene  3 :  A  full  cloak  thrown  over  dress  and  fas- 
tened at  the  neck  and  waist  with  silk  cords.  Act  3,  Scene  2  :  Rich  velvet  bodica 
coming  ffown  in  a  peak  in  front  and  then  sloping  off  on  either  side  to  form  a 
train.  The  skirt  portion  edged  round  with  puffs  of  amber  silk ;  the  bodice  is 
laced  together  in  front  with  gold  and  silver  cords  ;  short  sleeves,  half  way  be- 
tween shoulder  and  elbow,  bound  round  with  puffs  of  ribbon,  and  continued  in 


THE    DUCHESS    DE    LA    VALLIKEE.  5 

loose  white  under  sleeves  of  lace,  and  rows  of  lace  round  the  neck;  rich  satin 
under  skirt  and  train  ;  high-heeled  shoes,  and  bows;  bracelets  and  necklace; 
hair  in  long  curls  ;  hat  with  feather,  when  needed.*  Act  5,  Scene  2  :  Similar 
dress  to  Act  1,  Scene  1,  with  cloak  as  in  Act  2.  Scene  3  :  Hat  and  feathers,  and 
gloves.  Scene  4  :  Rich  bridal  costume  of  white  satin  bodice,  full  sleeves,  skirt 
and  train,  trimmed  with  wreaths  of  flowers  and  rosettes  round  the  bead  ;  under 
skirt  of  white  silk;  high-heeled  white  leather  shoes;  followed,  in  the  change, 
by  a  plain  black  loose  robe,  with  white  collar  and  cuffs,  and  the  hair  without 
any  ornaments. 

The  Queen.— A  similar  costume  to  the  Dcchess,  but  varied  in  the  color  and  ar- 
rangement, and  more  highly  ornamented  with  a  greater  display  of  jewelry  ; 
high-heeled  shoes  ;  hair  in  curls. 

De  Montespan.  — A  similar  costume,  but  varied  during  the  play  in  each  Act.  A 
braast  knot  of  colors  in  Act  3,  and  in  the  last  Act  a  light  overcloak,  hat  and 
leathers  ;  high-heeled  shoes  ;  hair  in  curls. 

Madame  de  la  Vallifre.  — A  full-bodied  dark  velvet  dress,  with  short  sleeves 
trimmed  with  lace,  and  lace  round  the  neck  ;  velvet  train,  trimmed  with  rib- 
bons, and  under  skirt  of  dark  silk  ;  high-heeled  shoes  ;  fan  ;  hat  and  feathers. 

Ladies  of  the  Court  asd  Maids  of  Honok. — Similar  dresses  in  construction  and 
arrangement  to  those  previously  described,  but  not  of  such  rich  material  or  so 
highly  ornamented.  All  the  ladies  wear  long  curls,  high-heeled  shoes,  and  ro- 
settes, and  in  Act  3  breast-knots. 


STOBY  OF  THE  FLAY. 

Some  years  previous  to  the  commencement  of  the  play,  Madame  de  la  Valliere 
had  been  left  a  widow  by  the  untimely  death  of  the  Lord  de  Valhere  in  one  of  the 
battles  which  took  place  during  the  campaign  between  the  French  and  the  Dutch. 
One  daughter  was  the  only  offspring  of  the  marrhge,  and  upon  her  was  bestowed  all 
that  a  mother's  care  and  affection  could  provide.  Beautiful,  warm-hearted,  and 
loving,  it  may  easily  be  imagined  how  great  was  the  treasure  the  widow  possessed, 
and  with  what  fear  and  trembling  she  received  an  intimation  that  the  reigning  sov- 
ereign, Louis  the  XIV.,  desired  the  presence  of  her  daughter  at  court.  Of  the  state 
of  affairs  at  the  period  selected  for  the  incidents  of  the  play,  and  of  the  character  of 
Louis,  a  very  good  idea  may  be  gathered  from  the  "  Remarks  "  which  will  be  found 
hereafter. 

Occupying  a  time-honored  chateau,  Madame  and  Louise  de  la  Valliere  were  happy 
and  contented;  and  the  latter  had  the  additional  happiness  of  a  lover,  Alphonse 
Marquis  de  Bragelone,  one  of  the  most  noble  and  gallant  knights  of  the  period. 
"When  quite  a  stripling,  he  had  bravely  won  his  spurs,  by  saving  De  Valliere's  stan- 
dard from  the  grasp  of  the  enemy,  and  upon  another  occasion,  he  threw  himself  in 
front  of  the  king,  and  received  in  his  breast  a  stab,  in  spite  of  his  coat  of  mail,  which 
would  probably  have  terminated  the  monarch's  life.  Bragelone  was  one  who  never 
left  debts  unpaid,  and  he  discharged  this  by  cleaving  in  two  the  head  of  his  assailant. 
His  courage  and  skill  gained  him  the  friendship  of  his  peers,  and  combined  with  his 
handsome  and  gallant  bearing,  the  love  and  admiration  of  the  softer  sex  ;  it  was 
not  long,  therefore,  before  he  found  great  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  beautiful  Louise 
de  la  Valliere. 

True  love,  it  is  known,  never  runs  smooth ;  the  king's  wish  was  law,  and  Louise 
was  bound  to  go  to  the  court. 

The  play  opens  on  the  evening  previous  to  her  departure,  when,  accompanied  by 
her  mother,  she  is  taking  a  parting  view,  perhaps  forever,  of  the  abode  of  childhood, 
youth  and  innocence— naturally,  the  scene  is  an  affecting  and  trying  one ;  the  mother 

*  The  design  of  this  dress  is  taken  from  an  old  painting  of  the  Queen,  Maria  The- 
resa, but  it  is  thought  proper  to  adapt  it  to  the  Duchess,  she  being  the  conspicuous 
character  of  the  play. 


(»  THE   Dt' CHESS   DE   LA   VALLIERE. 

lias  every  faith  and  confidence  in  her  child;  a  firm  belief,  that  by  instinct  she  will 
shrink  from  wrong;  and  that  the  thought  of  a  parent's  love,  and  the  voice  of  a  pure 
conscience,  will  guide  I  fir  safely  through  all  temptations,  even  through  those  at  that 
time  existing  in  the  gayest  and  most  profligate  court  in  Europe.  Louise  bids  her 
look  well  after  the  poor  peasants,  who  will  miss  her  in  the  winter,  and  her  birds, 
and  then  comes  the  germs  of  danger — the  story  of  the  visions  she  has  frequently  bad 
of  royalty,  love,  and  empire.  The  mother  endeavors  to  convince  her  it  is  mere 
imagination,  conjured  up  by  her  father's  stories,  who,  in  her  early  years,  was  always 
instilling  into  her  mind  the  old  knightly  faith  of  France,  "  To  honor  God,  and  love. 
Che  king."  Louise  admits  it  might  be  so,  but  thinks  it  strange  to  have  had  the  dream 
so  often.  The  arrival  of  her  lover,  Bragelone,  prevents  further  discussion.  lie,  too, 
has  been  summoned  away  ;  not  to  court,  but  to  the  wars,  and  he  rejoices  that  when 
she  is  gone  he  will  not  be  left  behind,  alone  to  haunt  the  spots  they  had  so  often 
sought  together,  and  mourn  her  absence  day  after  day.  In  warm  language,  he 
relates  to  her  the  story  of  his  love  and  its  growth — the  idolatry  of  his  passion,  and 
points  out  to  her  the  vast  difference  between  his  own  honest  heart,  that  never 
wronged  a  friend  or  shunned  a  foe,  and  that  of  the  courtiers  she  will  meet,  mere 
minions  of  the  king ;  proud  to  the  humble,  servile  to  the  great.  With  a  strangely 
mingled  feeling,  that  she  does,  and  yet  she  does  not,  love  Bragelone,  she  binds  her 
scarf  across  his  coat  of  mail,  and  bids  him  farewell. 

In  due  course,  she  reaches  the  court,  where  her  grace  and  beauty  attract  the  admir- 
ation of  all,  of  the  king  more  especially.  A  letter  from  her  mother,  to  Bragelone, 
informs  him  of  all  this,  and  he  is  so  proud  of  her  triumph,  that  he  vows  the  king, 
for  the  favor  and  praise  he  h  is  bestowed  upon  the  idol  of  his  love,  shall  find  in  him 
henceforward,  a  tenfold  better  soldier.  Telling  his  joys  to  the  old  family  armorer, 
Bertrand  the  faithful  retainer  is  proud,  indeed,  to  learn  the  secret  of  his  master's 
love,  and  is  half  wild  with  glee,  at  the  prospect  of  a  marriage,  and  nursing  upou  his 
knee  an  infant  likeness  of  his  young  lord. 

Gossip  and  scandal  are  not  long,  however,  before  they  attack  Louise.  The  sub- 
ject of  her  early  visions  are  formed  into  reality  by  the  gorgeous  scenes  surrounding 
her.  When  first  beholding  the  king's  portrait,  young,  gallant,  and  handsome  as  he 
is,  a  vague  feeling  of  a  wild,  romantic  fancy  for  him,  not  yet  ripened  into  actual  love, 
steals  over  her,  and  the  passion  becomes  stronger  when  they  meet.  The  courtiers, 
but  more  especially,  the  wily  Duke  de  Lauzun,  are  pleased  with  this.  According 
to  his  views,  the  king  must  have  a  mistress,  and  by  that  mistress  he  must  mount  to 
fame  and  power.  A  brilliant  fete  which  takes  place  in  the  gardens  of  the  Fontaine- 
bleau  palace,  affords  him  an  excellent  opportunity  of  furthering  his  projects.  In  the 
confidence  of  the  king,  they  converse  freely,  respecting  Louise  ;  and  in  honeyed  words, 
the  Duke  tells  him  of  the  court  gossip.  Louise  approaching,  they  draw  aside,  and 
overhear  her  describe  to  the  'adies  of  the  court,  in  the  most  glowing  language,  her 
admiration  of  the  king.  The  ladies  retire,  to  join  in  the  dance,  and  she  is  about  to 
follow,  when  he  intercepts  her,  and  the  Duke  judiciously  slips  away.  Thus  left 
alone,  the  king,  in  passionate  language,  declares  his  love.  A  strong  struggle  rends  her 
heart ;  she  implores  him  to  unsay  his  words,  and  reminding  him  that  she  is  but  a 
poor,  simple  girl,  who,  though  she  loves  her  king,  loves  honor  more,  flies  from  his 
presence.  Her  coyness  only  increases  the  intensity  of  his  passion,  and  another  oppor- 
tunity is  soon  afforded  him  to  further  show  her  the  ardor  of  his  love.  Amongst  the 
varied  amusements  is  one,  the  Temple  of  Fortune,  presided  over  by  Merit  and  Honor. 
Each  person  draws  a  ticket  from  the  vase  of  Merit,  and  preserving  it  to  Honor, 
receives  in  return  some  article  of  jewelry  which  is  presented  to  the  presumed  object 
of  affection.  The  king  draws  a  magnificent  diamond  bracelet,  every  eye  is  upon  him, 
each  lady  hoping  to  be  the  happy  recipient  of  the  royal  favor  ;  quickly  and  gallantly 
he  clasps  it  upon  the  arm  of  Louise,  and  the  first  step  towards  the  path  of  sin  is 
taken. 

Strange  rumors  reach  Bragelone,  of  the  sudden  advancement  of  Louise  at  court  ; 
insinuations  are  strongly  uttered  that  she  is  the  king's  chosen  favorite,  and  although 
the  young  knight  cannot  bring  himself  to  believe  that  it  is  needed,  he  determines  to 


THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIKRE.  7 

seek  her;  to  warn,  advise,  protect,  and,  if  required,  to  save  her.  Arriving  at  Fon- 
tainebleau,  in  strolling  through  the  gardens,  he  encounters  Lauzun,  who  relates  to 
him  the  gossip  of  the  court,  and  throws  out  broad  hints  as  to  the  chastity  of  Louise. 
The  indignation  of  Bragelone  is  aroused  ;  although  a  rough,  stern  sold.er,  taught 
from  youth  to  maintain  his  words  by  his  sword,  he  restrains  himself,  and  implores 
Lauzun  to  unsay  the  story  ;  meeting  with  a  refusal  and  a  repetition,  they  fight,  and 
though  Bragelone  disarms  him,  l.e  scorns  to  take  his  life.  They  separate,  hut  Bra- 
gelone, returning  to  the  spot,  comes  unexpectedly  upon  Louise,  who  is  gazing  with 
admiration  upon  a  portrait  of  tiie  king,  and  breathing  his  name  in  tender  accents. 
Bragelone  speaks  to  her  with  all  his  fervent  love  ;  he  pictures  to  her  in  vivid  terms, 
the  image  of  what  she  was,  and  what  he  is  now  led  to  believe  she  is.  With  true 
indignation,  she  denies  the  charge;  still  he  insinuates  its  truth,  telling  her  how 
deeply  and  devotedly  he  loved  her,  but  now  that  confidence  and  hope  have  fled,  his 
heart  is  crushed,  and  life  bath  charms  no  more.  She  beseeches  him  not  to  be  hasty 
in  his  judgment ;  she  will  fly  back  to  the  old  chateau  and  quit  the  court  forever. 
Still  doubting,  he  reminds  her  that  even  there  the  king  can  reach,  and  that  there  is 
only  one  safe  place  of  shelter  left — the  house  of  God.  In  great  agony  she  half-con- 
sents, but  urges  that  she  should  see  the  king  once,  more,  to  take  a  last  farewell  ;  Bra- 
gelone reminds  her,  most  touchingly,  of  the  love  of  her  mother,  who  is  then  blessing 
Heaven  for  her  birth,  but  to-morrow  may  be  wishing  she  were  dead.  The  scruples 
of  Louise  are  vanquished  by  this  touching  appeal,  and  she  flies  with  Bragelone. 

At  an  interview  between  the  king  and  Lauzun,  to  whom  he  is  giving  the  lands  and 
lordship  of  one  of  the  French  provinces  as  a  token  of  his  gratitude  for  the  zeal  with 
which  the  wily  courtier  serves  him,  Louis  again  tells  him  of  the  depth  of  his  love  for 
Louise  ;  during  which,  news  is  brought  him  of  her  flight.  In  a  torrent  of  passion, 
he  proclaims  that  she  is,  to  him,  more  than  his  crown,  from  which  not  all  the  arms 
of  Europe  dare  take  a  single  jewel,  and  that  all  who  stand  between  him  and  her  are 
traitors  to  the  throne. 

Louise  reaches  in  safety  the  Convent  of  the  Carmelites ;  but  she  cannot  command 
peace  of  miud  or  repose.  She  feels  that  she  loves  the  king,  though  it  is  guilty  so  to 
do,  and  she  would  not,  if  she  could,  be  happy  and  forget  him.  Sounds  of  alarm  at 
this  moment  ring  through  the  building,  and  the  king,  accompanied  by  Lauzun, 
arrives  to  claim,  if  needs  be,  to  compel,  the  return  of  Louise.  Surrouuded  by 
affrighted  nuns,  the  Lady  Abbess  reminds  him  that  the  walls  of  the  holy  building 
are  sacred  against  the  power  of  the  strongest  monarch.  But  Louis  is  not  to  be 
thwarted,  and  notwithstanding  the  threatened  curses  of  the  church  of  Koine,  he 
claims  the  right  to  converse  with  Louise  alone  ;  she  has  not  yet  taken  the  vows,  she 
is  a  fatherless  child  over  whom,  as  one  of  his  court,  he  lawfully  has  control,  and  there- 
fore he  commands  a  private  interview.  Most  reluctantly  the  Lady  Abbess  yields, 
and  left  alone,  he  appeals  passionately  to  Louise  to  retrace  her  steps.  At  first  she 
firmly  resists  his  importunities,  but  his  solemn  declaration  of  true,  undying,  and 
enduring  love,  which  he,  the  proudest  and  most  powerful  monarch  in  Europe,  offers 
to  her  on  his  knee,  are  too  flattering  tributes  to  her  vanity  ;  she  acknowledges  her 
love  for  him  and  yields,  returning  to  the  court  to — fall. 

In  a  brief  period,  wealth,  position,  and  splendor  are  bestowed  upon  Louise  :  but, 
as  so  frequently  the  case,  they  bring  neither  happiness  nor  friendship.  She  is  raised 
to  the  rank  of  a  Duchess  and  soon  finds  a  powerful  rival,  in  the  person  of  Madame 
de  Montespan,  one  of  the  maids  of  honor,  a  woman  of  almost  equal  beauty,  but  not 
of  such  genuine  tenderness  and  devotion  as  Louise.  Madame  de  Montespan  is  art- 
ful, intriguing,  and  ambitious  ;  and  she  finds  a  ready  helpmate  in  L  uizun,  who  has 
assisted  her  in  her  schemes  on  more  than  one  occasion.  He  willingly  joins  his  forces, 
as  he  has  not  found  in  the  Duchess  the  friendship  and  support  he  had  been  expect- 
ing to  receive  from  her  so  soon  as  she  attained  a  high  position.  Madame  de  Mon- 
tespan had  once  loved  Lauzun,  she  might  even  love  him  now,  but  she  lovesambition 
and  power  more.  She  needs  a  guide,  but  once  successful  in  her  schemes,  she  must 
have  no  partner;  then,  witli  all  his  haughty  air,  the  will  bind  him  in  her  charms — 
she  will  lead  but  not  be  led. 


8  THE    DUCHESS    D2    LA    VALUERE. 

An  opportunity  too  soon  occurs  to  put  their  schemes  in  motion,  and  work  the 
downfall  of  the  Duchess.  During  one  of  their  private  hours  of  enjoyment,  over  a 
game  of  chess,  the  king  tells  Louise  of  sad  news  he  lias  received,  and  that  both  him- 
self and  Frarcc  mourn  the  loss  of  one  of  his  bravest  subjects,  who  should  have  died 
a  marshal  had  not  death  struck  so  soon.  With  true  and  innocent  sympathy  she 
inquires  his  name,  that  she,  too,  may  mourn  his  untimely  end;  and  it  is  in  vain  she 
endeavors  to  conceal  her  emotion,  when,  the  answer  comes,  "  Bragelone  !" 

The  king  questions  her,  and  she  does  not  attempt  to  conceal  from  him  that  they 
were  betrothed  in  youth  ;  then  flashes  across  his  mind  with  all  the  weight  of  truth, 
Lauzuu's  assertions,  that  Louise  loved  another,  and  that  it  was  not  the  king  who 
had  won  her  virgin  heart.  Jealousy,  disappointed  pride,  and  anger,  are  alternately 
aroused  :  he  reproaches  her  bitterly  for  sorrowing  over  lost  virtue;  forgetting  that 
she  is  placed  next  in  rank  to  the  latest,  but  not  the  least,  of  the  great  Bourbon  race 
of  kings,  and  he  sternly  commands  her  to  greet  him  for  the  future  with  smiles,  and 
not  wi  h  tears.  Dissembling,  however,  they  separate,  she  in  the  belief  that  the 
storm  has  blown  over — he,  to  consult  his  wily  favorite,  Lauzun,  and  with  the  assis- 
tance of  his  wit  and  knavery,  endeavor  to  find  some  new  attraction  in  the  place  of 
her  whom  he  had  so  ardently  Bought,  but  of  whom  he  now  grows  weary. 

At  this  unfortunate  moment  for  the  Duchess,  Madame  de  Montespan  arrives, 
and  learning  that  the  king  has  gone  off  in  anger,  quickly  perceives  the  value  of  the 
opportunity  fortune  has  thrown  in  her  way.  There  is  a  great  fete  in  preparation, 
and  as  she  serves  the  queen,  and  will  consequently  meet  the  king  before  sunset,  she 
suggests  that  Louise  should  write  to  him,  and  promises  herself  to  place  the  letter  in 
bis  hands.  The  gentle  and  unsuspecting  Duchess  falls  into  the  snare;  she  teils 
Madame  de  Montespan  of  the  discovery  of  her  love  for  Bragelone,  and  gives  her  the 
letter  to  the  king,  with  heart-felt  joy,  at  having  found  in  the  hour  of  trouble  so  true 
a  friend.  The  clue  thus  found,  Madame  de  Montespan  determines  to  follow  up 
until  it  leads  the  Duchess  to  destruction — herself  to  favor,  and,  perhaps,  the  throne. 
During  the  progress  of  the  lete,  the  king  reveals  to  Lauzun  his  fancy  for  Madame 
de  Montespan,  and  the  wily  courtier  perceiving  she  is  approaching,  withdraws  so  as 
to  leave  them  together.  With  well  assumed  diffidence,  and  deceptive  modesty  of 
demeanor,  she  presents  the  letter.  The  king  is  struck  with  her  beauty,  which  had 
hitherto  escaped  his  notice ;  she  perceives  the  impression  she  has  made,  and  so  art- 
fully constructs  her  speech,  that  she  rouses  an  ardent  passion  within  him,  which  he 
openly  declares.  Following  up  the  advantage  thus  gained,  she  rejects  his  offers,  and 
hurriedly  retreats,  thus  making  him  still  more  anxious  to  secure  a  successor  to  the 
Duchess.  A  further  opportunity  occurs  to  contribute  to  her  downfall.  A  courtier, 
believing  in  her  influence  and  power  with  the  king,  presents  a  memorial  for  a  vacant 
appointment  as  colonel  in  the  royal  guards.  Louise,  however,  tells  him  that  merit, 
rather  than  favor,  should  obtain  the  post,  and  declines  to  interfere;  not  so,  however 
with  Madame  de  Montespan  who  observes  the  chance,  takes  the  paper  and  prom- 
ises the  king  shall  see  it  and  grant  the  request.  In  an  interview  that  follows,  this 
is  achieved,  even  in  the  presence  of  Louise,  who  sees  witli  grief  and  anguish,  the 
mastery  that  her  rival  is  assuming.  And  yet  another  blow  falls.  A  knightly  tour- 
nament is  to  be  held,  at  which  each  combatant  is  to  wear  the  colors  of  the  lady  lie 
now  chooses.  Louise,  in  her  confiding  nature,  believes  that  the  king  will,  as  hither,  o, 
receive  hers;  but  when  she  takes  the  breast-knot  from  her  bosom,  and  offers  it,  he 
turns  aside,  and  selects  one  from  Madame  de  Montespan.  The  Duchess  is  crushed, 
but  the  wi  y  Lauzun  bids  her  conceal  her  emotion,  and  artfully  suggests  how  differ- 
ently he  would  have  acted. 

As  quickly  as  the  Duchess  rose  to  wealth  and  power,  so  does  Madame  de  Montes- 
]  an  rise.  Now  is  the  time  for  Lauzun  to  act ;  he  is  very  poor,  his  creditors  very 
pressing,  the  Duchess  is  rich  and  a  valuable  prize— though  a  blemish  exists,  it  is 
obscured  by  her  wealth  ;  why  should  he  not  marry  her  1  Warily,  and  cautiously,  he 
mentions  the  subject  to  the  king,  who  at  first  receives  the  proposition  with  anger, 
love  still  lingering  in  his  breast :  but  ultimately  he  gives  his  approval  to  the  suit. 
Madame  De  la  Valhere  is  dead,  and  the  sorrows  and  sufferings  of  the  Duchess  are 


THE   DUCHESS   DS    LA   VALLIERE.  9 

increased  by  the  knowledge  that  she  is  now  alone  in  the  world.  A  visit  from  Lau-- 
zun  gives  her  a  momentary  hope  of  joy  ;  believing  he  brings  a  message  from  the 
king,  but  this  is  soon  dispelled  ly  the  proffer  of  Lauzun's  hand.  Bowed  down  by 
grief  and  shame,  there  is  still  some  honesty  and  virtue  left,  and  learning  that  the 
king  himself  has  encouraged,  even  wished  for  the  union,  Bhe  indignantly  rejects  the 
offer,  and  bids  him,  as  the  king's  friend,  depart  ;  not  wishing  to  see  him  so  debased 
as  to  be  refused  by  the  cast-off  mistress  of  his  master. 

Immediately  after  this  interview,  Bragelone,  whose  reported  death  is  untrue, 
arrives  in  the  garb  of  a  Franciscan  Friar,  and  craves  an  audience  of  the  Duchess.  In 
the  course  of  this  interview,  he  acquaints  her  with  the  particulars  of  her  lover's 
supposed  death — he  depicts  the  fervency  of  his  affection,  and  the  crushing  blow 
that  fell  upon  him  wheu  he  received  the  tidings  of  her  fall  from  virtue.  In  agony, 
she  listens  to  the  story  of  his  sufferings,  and  he  hands  her  a  faded  scarf,  the  one  she 
had  twined  around  his  coat  of  mail.  An  inward,  undefined  feeling  prompts  her  to 
ask  who  he  is,  and  he  tells  her,  "  Bragelone's  brother,"  upon  which  she  implores  him 
to  be  a  friend  to  the  friendless.  This  he  promises,  and  further  informs  her,  that  as 
a  priest,  lie  had  engaged  to  wait  until  her  guilty  fame  was  tarnished,  then  to  seek 
her,  and  lead  her  to  repentance  and  atonement.  In  the  deepest  agony  she  listens  to 
the  story  of  her  mother's  death,  which  had  been  hastened  by  her  shame;  that  on 
her  death-bed,  in  the  once  joyous  home  of  honor,  peace  and  purity,  the  mother  was 
about  to  curse,  when  Bragelone,  who  attended  her  whilst  life  held  out,  arrested  her 
lips,  and  her  dying  breath  yielded  forth  a  blessing  In  frantic  anguish,  the  Duchess 
can  bear  no  more,  and  rushes  madly  from  the  room.  Ere  Bragelone  can  depart,  the 
king  arrives,  and  the  friar  boldly  reproaches  him  with  his  perfidious  conduct.  He 
pictures  his  greatness,  as  viewed  in  the  world,  and  then  paints  him  as  he  appears 
before  an  humble  minister  of  Heaven. 

"  You  are  the  king  who  has  betray'd  his  trust — 
Beggar'd  a  nation,  but  to  bloat  a  court, 
Seen  in  men's  lives  the  pastime  to  ambition, 
Look'd  but  on  virtue  as  the  toy  for  vice  ; 
And,  tor  the  first  time,  from  a  subject's  lips, 
Now  learns  the  name  he  leaves  to  Time  and  God  1" 

Angered,  as  the  king  is,  the  friar  is  undaunted  ;  more  powerful,  more  eloquent  and 
more  impassioned  in  his  language,  he  warns  him  to  beware  of  the  consequences  of 
his  cruelty,  voluptuousness,  and  vice,  and  leaves  him  astounded  at  the  truthful,  but 
audacious  speech.  A  good  draught  of  wine  soon  nerves  the  king  for  his  interview 
with  the  Duchess,  in  which  he  urges  the  marriage  with  Lauzun.  She  tells  him  of 
the  refusal,  and  that  she  has  made  iinother  choice,  of  which  he  shall  be  in  due  time 
informed;  thus  satisfied,  he  departs.  Bragelone  returns  ;  her  struggles  have  been 
great,  but  the  desire  for  repentance  has  triumphed,  and  she  agrees  to  accompany  the 
friar  to  the  Convent  of  the  Carmelites. 

The  news  of  the  second  flight  of  the  Duchess  creates  much  sensation,  but  Madame 
de  Moutespan  asserts  that  a  month's  fasting  and  penance  will  send  her  back  again. 
Matters  have  not  gone  on  well  with  the  new  mistress  and  Lauzun ;  he  is  chafed  at 
her  constant  allusions  to  his  love  for  the  Duchess,  and  she,  by  his  retort,  that  it  is 
something  to  love  the  only  woman  whom  the  king  had  ever  honored.  She  threatens 
to  exert  her  influence,  and  procure  his  banishment ;  and  thus  forewarned,  he  deter- 
mines to  increase  the  coldness  with  which  the  king  has  already  begun  to  look  upon 
his  new  mistress,  observing,  with  appropriate  sarcasm  : 

"The  war's  declared — 'tis  clear  that  one  must  fall, 
I'll  be  polite— the  lady  to  the  wall !" 

Upon  leaving  the  palace,  Bragelone,  still  unknown,  conducts  the  Duchess  to  the 
old  chateau,  to  take  a  farewell  look  of  the  former  abode  of  childhood,  purity,  and 
happiness.  It  is  too  severe  a  trial,  and  she  swoons  in  his  arms.  As  he  bends  over 
and  imprints  a  kiss  upon  her  lips — 

"  A  brother's  kiss— it  has  no  guilt; 
Kind  Heaven,  it  has  no  guilt !" 


10  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIKRE. 

he  breathes  aloud  her  name.  Slowly  reviving,  she  hears  and  recognizes  him ;  he 
passionately  tells  her  that  his  last  task  before  death,  is  to  lead  her  soul  to  peace, 
and  on  the  day  that  she  takes  the  veil,  one  more,  one  last  meeting,  and  then — she 
to  a  convent,  he  to  a  hermit's  cell  without. 

The  king  has  undergone  another  change  ;  the  coarseness  and  artfulness  of  Madame 
de  Montespan,  as  compared  with  the  gentleness  and  innocence  of  the  Duchess,  have 
displeased  him,  and  he  sends  a  letter  to  Louise  full  of  his  old  affection  :  but  it  is  too 
late,  she  is  firm  in  her  resolution.  He  is  not,  however,  to  be  thwarted  thus,  and  he 
hurries  forward  to  stop  the  ceremony,  and  secure,  if  possible,  her  return. 

In  the  meantime,  the  tables  are  shifting  between  LauzuD  and  Madame  de  Mon- 
tespan. He  exerts  his  power  and  influence  with  success,  and  at  the  very  moment 
that  she  is  congratulating  herself  uion  her  agreeable  progress  so  far,  and  again 
threatens  Lauzun,  her  tall  is  consummated  by  his  producing  a  letter  from  the  king, 
excusing  her  further  attendance  at  court,  and  banishing  her  from  Paris.  Tims  far 
successful,  Lauzun  hastens  to  join  the  king  in  his  efforts  to  secure  the  Duchess. 

Reaching  the  convent,  and  forcing  their  way  to  the  altar,  through  the  crowd 
assembled  to  witness  the  imposing  ceremony,  Bragelone  stops  the  king's  advance, 
calling  upon  the  priests  of  Heaven  to  complete  their  task,  and  invoking  the  curse  of 
the  Church  upon  him  who  would  interfere.  Before  the  ceremony  is  over,  the  king 
obtains  an  interview  with  the  Duchess  ;  in  the  most  humble  and  imploring  language, 
he  confesses  his  errors,  and  beseeches  her  to  return  ;  renewed  love,  wealth,  power, 
rank— all  shall  be  lavished  upon  her.     Too  late  !     Her  reply  is : 

"  For  Louis  Heaven  was  left — and  now  I  leave 
Louis,  when  tenfold  more  beloved,  for  Heaven  !" 

The  end  is  reached.  The  church  claims  as  her  own,  the  beautiful  mistress  of  Louis 
the  XIV.,  King  of  France;  and  the  world,  with  all  its  glories,  pomp,  and  vanities, 
are  forever  shut  out  from  the  gaze  of—  The  Duchess  de  la  Valliere! 


REMARKS. 


Pursuing  the  plan  adopted  in  the  historical  play  of  Richelieu,  a  brief  notice  of 
the  royal  personage  who  tigures  so  conspicuously  in  this  play,  and  of  the  position  of 
affairs  at  the  period,  will,  it  is  hoped,  prove  interesting. 

Louis  XIII.  (who  figures  in  Richelieu),  died  iir  1043,  leaving  one  son,  aged  five 
years,  over  whom  he  appointed  a  Council  of  Regency,  consisting  of  his  queen,  Anne 
of  Austria,  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  Cardinal  Mazarin  (a  staunch  disciple  of,  and  suc- 
cessor to,  Richelieu),  the  Prince  of  Conde,  and  others.  But  immediately  after  his 
death,  the  Queen  took  steps  to  do  away  with  all  her  deceased  husband's  arrange- 
ments ;  she  procured  his  will  to  be  cancelled  by  the  Parliament,  and  assumed  the 
supreme  authority  of  government,  bestowing,  to  the  surprise  of  all,  upon  Cardinal 
Mazarin,  the  faithful  adherent  and  follower  of  Richelieu,  her  persevering  enemy, 
the  office  of  Prime  Minister. 

During  this  regency,  which  lasted  for  a  period  of  nearly  eighteen  years,  there  was 
a  constant  succession  of  wars,  intrigues,  and  civil  dissensions,  which  were  not  put  an 
end  to,  and  indeed,  then  only  temporarily,  until  16G0,  when  Louis  XIV.,  then  twenty- 
two  years  of  age,  was  married  to  Maria  Theresa,  the  Infanta  of  Spain  ;  and  imme- 
diately upon  the  death  of  Cardinal  Mazarin,  in  the  year  following,  personally 
assumed  the  supreme  direction  of  affairs.  From  all  accounts,  he  was  well  qualified 
for  the  task.  He  possessed  a  sound,  though  not  a  bril'iant  intellect  ;  a  firm  and 
resolute  will  ;  considerable  sagacity  and  penetration;  much  aptitude  for  business; 
industry,  and  perseverance.  Mazarin  said  of  him :  "  There  is  enough  in  him  to 
make  four  kings  and  one  honest  man." 

Louis  imbibed  the  most  extravagant  ideas  of  the  nature  and  extent  of  the  royal 
prerogative.  Regarding  his  authority  as  delegated  immediately  from  Heaven,  he 
strove  to  concentrate  in  himself  individually,  all  the  powers  and  functions  of  govern- 
ment.   According  to  his  view,  the  sovereign  was  not  only  the  guardian  and  dispen- 


THE   DUCHESS   D3   LA   VALLIEKE.  11 

Ber,  but  the  fountain  and  author  of  all  law,  and  of  all  justice.  His  fixed  principle 
was,  "  The  State  is  myself;  "  and  the  peculiar  position  in  which  he  found  the  affairs 
of  the  kingdom,  enabled  him  almost  literally  to  verify  this  lofty  maxim.  Never,  in 
the  whole  history  of  the  world,  was  there  a  more  complete,  nor  a  more  favorable  or 
successful  specimen  of  absolute  irresponsible  monarchy  than  that  which  he  estab- 
lished. 

During  the  early  years  of  his  reign,  Louis  lived  in  habits  of  unrestrained  licen- 
tiousness. He  formed  an  attachment  for  Maria  di  Mancini,  a  niece  of  Cardinal 
Mazarin;  but  the  wily  minister  had  no  faith  in  the  happiness  of  such  a  union, 
neither  was  it  suited  to  his  political  intrigues  and  designs,  so  the  young  lady  w;is 
removed  from  court,  and  t'.ie  marriage  with  the  Infanta  of  Spain  brought  about- 
This  union,  however,  in  no  way  checked  the  lax  principles  of  morality  in  Louis  ;  it 
is  doubtful,  indeed,  if  he  entertained  any  red  affection  for  his  wife;  if  he  did,  he 
did  not  allow  either  that  feeling,  or  one  of  respect  even,  to  prevent  his  openly  indulg- 
ing in  licentious  pursuit?.  It  is  recorded,  on  the  best  authorities,  that  his  first  object 
of  serious  attachment  was  Louise  de  la  Valliere,  the  heroine  of  this  play,  who,  after 
having  borne  liim  two  children,  retired  into  a  convent.  This  incident  the  author 
has  selected  for  his  subject,  and  it  will  be  seen  how  well  and  truly  lie  depicts  the 
character  of  the  king — strictly  in  keeping  with  that  derived  from  the  best  authori- 
ties, as  above  described.  He  omits,  however,  all  mention  of  the  children  ;  and  the 
banishment  of  Madame  de  Montespan,  as  stated  in  the  play,  is  merely  a  dramatic 
liberty  with  truth  ;  the  records  refer  to  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  on  the  contrary,  they 
show  that  immediately  upon  the  retirement  of  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere,  Madame 
de  Montespan  continued  to  retain  the  royal  affections  and  became  the  mother  of 
eight  children,  who  were  all  declared  legitimate  and  intermarried  with  some  of  the 
noblest  families  in  the  realm. 

In  1678,  when  forty  years  of  age,  Liuis  became  enamored  with  Fran^oise  D'Au- 
bigne,  grand-daughter  of  the  great  Trotestant  historian,  and,  who  afterwards  became 
so  celebrated  as  Madame  de  Maintenon.  She  had  been  recommended  to  Madame 
de  Montespan  as  governess  to  her  children,  in  which  cap  icity  the  King  saw  her  con- 
stantly, and  by  degrees  she  acquired  an  influence  and  control  over  him  which  lasted 
until  his  death.  Amidst  all  these  licentious  intrigues,  the  queen  could  not  have  led 
a  very  happy  life  ;  however,  she  does  not  appear  to  have  taken  it  very  much  to  heart ; 
she  lived  for  twenty-three  years  after  her  marriage,  and  died  in  1683.  The  year  fol- 
lowing, the  king  was  secretly  married  to  Mudame  de  Maintenon  by  his  confessor, 
La  Chaise,  in  the  presence  of  the  Archbishop  of  Paris ;  but  the  marriage  was  never 
acknowledged,  in  consequence  of  which,  her  position  at  court  was  rather  anomalous 
and  equivocal,  but  her  influence  over  the  royal  mind  in  private  was  unbounded, 
extending  to  all  subjects,  domestic,  political,  and  religious. 

After  a  constant  succession  of  intrigues  and  wars,  during  which  occurred  some  of 
the  greatest  and  most  splendid  battles  upon  record,  Louis  XIV.  closed  his  career  in 
171-3,  having  consequently  reigned  seventy-two  years,  the  longest  period  of  kingly 
rule  upon  record. 

As  a  general  rule,  the  first  dramatic  productions  of  an  author,  no  matter  whit  liis 
position  in  the  other  varied  paths  of  literature  may  he,  is  seldom,  or  ever,  attended 
with  success  ;  and  notwithstanding  the  high  intellect,  cultivation  and  ability  of  the 
eminent  writer  of  the  present  play,  it  was  no  exception  to  this  general  rule.  In  all 
first  productions,  there  is  almost  invariably  found  a  weakness  of  plot,  and  a  want  of 
consistency  in  the  arrangement  and  a  crudeness  of  construction,  which  can  only  be 
overcome  by  practice  and  observation,  and  the  opposite  of  which  cannot  be  born 
wiih  the  genius  of  the  author. 

The  story  worked  out  in  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere  is  simple,  and  although  it  is 
sufficient  for  an  excellent  reading  play,  it  is  not  sufficiently  interesting,  nor  filled 
enough  with  good  roints  and  situations,  to  make  it  an  interesting  and  attractive 
play  in  a  theatrical  sense.  That  this  view  is  a  true  one,  and  that  the  talented 
author  himself  so  felt,  is  verified  by  his  observations  in  the  preface  to  the  succeeding 
production  of  his  pen,  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  in  which,  after  admitting  the  comparative 


12  THE  DUCHES.S  DE  LA  VALLIERE. 

failure  of  the  present  piece  upon  the  stage,  he  slates  that  one  of  his  reasons  for 
making  a  second  attempt  was  to  see  whether  certain  critics  had  truly  declared  that 
it  was  not  in  his  power  to  attain  the  art  of  dramatic  construction  and  theatrical 
effect.  He  admits  that  he  felt  it  was  in  this  that  a  writer  accustomed  to  the  narra- 
tive class  of  composition,  had  much  both  to  learn  and  unlearn,  and  accordingly,  he 
had  directed  his  chief  attention  to  the  development  and  a  careful  arrangement  of  the 
incidents,  tin  owing  whatever  belonged  to  poetry  less  into  the  diction  and  the  "  felic- 
ity of  words,"  than  into  the  construction  of  the  story,  the  creation  of  the  characters, 
and  the  spirit  of  the  prevailing  sentiment. 

Rut,  although  thus  deficient  as  a  dramatic  work,  there  are  unquestionably  many 
beauties  in  the  language  of  the  present  play,  which,  as  before  observed,  render  it  an 
entertaining  work  for  perusal.  For  instance,  in  the  opening  scene,  the  conversation 
between  mother  and  daughter;  the  story  of  her  dreams  of  ambition,  and  the  inter- 
view between  her  and  her  lover,  Bragelone,  are  prettily  rendered  ;  the  conversation 
between  Bragelone  and  the  armorer,  Bertrand,  in  a  subsequent  scene,  is  character- 
istically and  well  drawn  ;  and  though  the  part  of  the  armorer  is  but  a  small  one,  it 
is  capable  of  being  made  a  very  telling  and  effective  one,  and  a  neat  little  picture  in 
any  representation  of  the  play.  The  meeting  of  Bragelone  and  Louise  after  her  arrival 
at  court,  and  his  endeavors  to  get  at  the  truth  of  the  evil  rumors  he  has  heard,  is 
also  well  drawn  :  but  more  particularly  good  is  his  short  speech  upon  the  strength 
and  purity  of  his  love.  Ag  lin,  also,  is  this  the  case,  in  the  third  act,  when  the  king 
discovers  the  love  of  Louise  for  Bragelone,  and  the  meeting  between  her  and  the 
latter  character. 

But  i  rubably  the  linest  written  and  most  effectively  drawn  portion  of  the  whole 
play,  is  the  scene  in  the  fourth  aef,  between  the  king  and  Bragelone,  in  hischaraeU  r 
of  the  Franciscan  friar,  in  which,  in  well-chosen,  eloquent,  and  powerful  language, 
he  vehemently  upbraids  the  king  for  his  base  conduct,  in  having  raised  a  maiden  to 
a  Duchess,  to  gratify  his  desires  :  trampled,  without  thought  or  regret,  upon  her 
gallant,  father's  memory  as  a  brave  and  loyal  subject;  tarnished  her  mother's  stain- 
less honor  as  a  matron,  and  rendered  her  home  and  expiring  life  desolate;  and 
crushed  the  hopes  and  anticipated  happiness  of  her  atfimeed  husband,  who  had 
served  him  well,  and  saved  his  life.  From  this  subject,  Bngelone  dashes  fiercely 
and  rapidly  into  a  review  of  the  king's  principles,  and  pictures  to  him  the  scenes  of 
gayety,  flattery,  and  licentiousness  then  surrounding  him,  and  which  had  so  long 
existed,  and  those  which  may  await  him — a  scaffold  where  the  palace  rises — the  axe 
— the  headsman— 'and  the  victim!  It  is  hardly  possible  for  any  writer  to  equal, 
much  less  to  surpasj  the  beauty  and  sarcastic  keenness  of  the  language  here  used  ;  it 
is,  most  undoubtedly,  the  most  brilliant  portion  of  the  play,  and  in  the  hands  of  a 
hue  actor,  must  invariably  make  a  hit.  Other  good  portions  could  be  selectid,  but 
it  is  the  lack  of  interest  and  faulty  dramatic  construction,  that  mars  and  damages 
this  otherwise  fine  play.  However  pleasingly  the  speeches  read,  they  are  too  prosy 
for  the  stage;  and  we  do  not  meet  with  the  noble  and  beautiful  sentiments  expressed 
in  the  perfectly  eloquent  and  poetical  language  which  mark  the  noble  author's  sub- 
sequent productions.  Nothing  in  the  play  will  bear  comparison  with  the  love  scenes 
in  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  or  the  jealousy  and  indignation  ot  De  Mauprat,  in  Richelieu. 
One  great  point,  however,  must  not  be  overlooked.  It  is  not  often  the  case,  that  in 
selecting  a  great  historical  personage  like  Louis  XIV.  for  one  of  the  principal  char- 
acters in  a  play,  that  the  author  adheres  strictly  to  the  authentic  recoids  of  the 
habits,  life,  and  disposition  of  that  person.  Jn  the  presei  t  instance,  nothing  has 
been  omitted,  or  aught  exaggerated,  and  the  character  of  Louis"  the  Great"  is  n« 
finely  painted  by  the  pen  of  the  renowned  scholar  and  yctt,  asit  has  been  portrayed 
by  that  of  the  great  historians,  who  were  contemporaneous  with  the  king. 

If  the  play  were  redue  d  to  about  two-thirds  of  its  present  length  and  slightly  re- 
arranged, it  would  make  a  very  fair  acting  drama  ;  but  I  am  not  r.ware  of  its  ev<  r 
having  been  played  in  such  a  way,  or  in  any  other  shape  than  in  its  entirety,  as  fiist 
produced  in  London,  when,  although  it  had  the  grand  support  of  the  eminent  trage- 
dian, Mr.  Macready,  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  Helen  Faucit  (as  to  whom,  see 
the  remarks  to  the  Lady  of  Lyons),  Mr.  Vandenhoff,  and  other  excellent  actors,  it 
failed  to  prove  a  success.  This  was  the  case  also  in  New  York,  upon  its  productien 
at  the  Park  Theatre,  in  1837.  although  it  was  well  mounted  and  well  cast,  having 
the  great  actress,  Miss  Ellen  Tree  (afterwards  Mrs  Charles  K>an),  in  the  part  of  tl.e 
Duchess.  It  was  this  want,  of  success,  which  induced  the  author  to  turn  his  atten- 
tion directly  to  a  closf1  study  of  the  principles  of  dramatic  construction,  and  which 
he  mastered  with  progressively,  grand,  and  perfect  results,  as  the  undying  repu- 
tation of  his  subsequent  plays,  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  Hichelieu,  and  Money  will  prove. 

J.  M.  E. 


THE  DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIERE.  13 

BILL  FOll  PROGRAMMES. 
All    I. 

Scene  I.— THE  CHATEAU  DE  LA  VALLIERE  AND  CONVENT  OF 
THE  CARMELITES. 

Mother  and  Daughter — The  Evening  of  Departure  for  the  Court — Story 
of  a  Lover — The  Scarf  of  Beauty 

Scene  II— ARMORY  IN  THE  CASTLE.  OF  BRAGELONE. 
A  Faithfd  Servant — Tiles  of  Heroism  and  Daring  -News  of  Louise  de 
la  Val  Here's  Arrival  at  Court — Anticipations  of  Marriage — An  Ar- 
morer's Joy. 
Scene  III.— APARTMENT  IN  THE  PALACE  OF  FONTAINE- 
BLEAU. 
Gossip  of  the  Court — A  Wily  Courtier — Wit  and  Cunning  beat  Sword 

and  Spear — The  King  must  have  a  Mistress  -It  must  be  Louise. 
Sc   se  IV— GARDENS  0?  THE  PALACE  ILLUMINATED  FOR  A 

ROYAL   FETE, 
Tlie  King  and  his  Courtiers — The  Monarch  caught  by  the  Maid — Scan- 
dal amongst  the  Ladies  of  Honor — Rivalry  and  Jealousy — The  Jung's 
Declaration  of  Love — The  Wheel  of  Fortune— Royal  Gift  to  Louise 
— Envy  and  Constcrnat'on. 

ACT  II. 

Scene  I —GARDENS  OF  THE  PALACE  OF  FONTAINEFLEAU. 
A  Lover  s  Search  — The  Tale  of  Scandal — Louise  i;  tki  King's  Favorite 
—  Tlie  Quarrel  and  the  Duel— The  Portrait—  Unexpected  Interrup- 
tion—A  Lovers  Appeal — "Fly  before  you  fall!  Mother!  Honor! 
Duty  !  all  call  upon  thee  ere  too  late  " — She  yields  ! — Flight  of  Louise 
and  Bragelonc. 

ScenkIT.— THE  KINGS  CABINET  AT  FONTAINEBLEAU. 
.1  Noble   Gift  to  the   Wily  Courtier,  Lauzun — The  King  reveals  his  Love — 
News  of  Louise'' s  Flight— Anger  of  the  King,  and  Orders  for  Pursuit. 
Scene  III —CLOISTERS  OF  A  CONVENT. 
Distress  of  Louise— The  S'gnul  of  Alarm-Arrival  of  the  ICnganl  Lau- 
zun—  The  Lady  Abbess  or  the  King— Convent  or  Court— Appeal  of 
Love,  and  Departure  for  the  Palace  once  more. 
ACT  III. 
Scene  I. —ANTECHAMBER  IN  THE  PALACE  OF  THE  DUCHESS 

DE   I  A  VALLIERE  AT  VERSAILLES. 
A  Rise  in  Rank  but  a   Full  from    Virtue— Louise  now  a  Duchess — Tlie 
Conspiracy — The    Wily    Courtier   and    Maid  of  Honor — Woman 
against  Woman — The  Compact  to  the  Death  ! 

Scene  IE— SALOON  IN  THE  KING'S  PALACE. 
A  Royal  Game  of  Chess — Story  of  the  Death  of  the  Bravest  Knight  in  France* 
Bragelone — Agitation  of  Louise — Ths  King's  Suspicions — The  Quarrel 
— Disgrace  Apirroaching — A  Rival  Mistress  and  a  False  Friend — The 
Trap  laid — An  Unsuspecting  Victim — The  Fatal  Letter. 


14  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIKRE. 

Scene  III.— THE  GARDENS  OF  VERSAILLES. 
A  Court  Serpent  -A  False  Messenger— The  Star  of  Louise  is  Falling — The 

King  finds  a  new  Mistress. 
Scene  IV.— GRAND  SALOON  IN  THE  PALACE  OF  VERSAILLES. 
A   Royal  Gathering— Jealousy  begins  the  Game — Proposal  for  a  Knightly 
Tournament — The  Colors  of  Louise  Refused— Triumph  of  Madame  de 
Montespan,  and  Betrayal  of  Louis  . 

ACT   IV. 

Scene  I.— THE  GARDENS   AT  VERSAILLES. 

Lauzun  lays  Flans  for  Marrying  the  Duchess — She  still  Loves  the  King — 

His  Victim,  not  his  Mistress. 
Scene  II.— PRIVATE  APARTMENT    IN    THE    PALACE  OF    THE 
DUCHESS  DE  LA  VALLIERE. 

Desolation  of  Louise— A  Mother's  Death — Lauzun  pleads  Jti.i  Sail — Virtue 
not  yet  Dead — A  Rejected  Lover — Arrival  of  a  Holy  Friar — Interview 
with  the  Duchess — Story  of  Bray elone's  Love  and  Forgiveness— A  Mo- 
ther's hist  words  changed  from  Curses  to  Blessings — Agony  of  Louise — 
Arrival  of  the  King — Anger  at  a  Monk's  Reproaches — The  Warning 
Voice  of  the  Church — "  Beware,  Proud  King  !  Beware  /'"—  Louise  Con- 
sents to  Wed. 

ACT  V. 

Scene  I.— THE  GARDENS  AT  VERSAILLES. 
Stori/  of  the  Flight  of  the  Duchess — Lauzun  and  the  King's  new  Mistress — 
Reproaches  and  Revenge — "  You've  played  the  Knave  and  Throicn  away 
the  King." 
Scene  II.— THE  OLD    CHATEAU    DE    LA  VALLIERE  AND    ('(IN- 
VENT OF  THE  CARMELITES 
.4  Last  Visit  to  the  Home  of  Childhood  and  Virtue— The  Disclosure — Brag- 
clone  still  Lives  .'-The  Priest's  Vows — The  World  is  Lost,  brt  the  Con- 
vent and  the  Monastery  remain. 
Scene  III.— EXTERIOR  OF    THE  CONVENT    OF    THE  CARMEL- 
ITES. 
"  Ere  the  Clock  strikes  Louise  takes  the  Veil !  " — Lauzun  and  Madame  de 
Montespan — Plot  against  Plot — Banishment  of  the  neio  Favorite — A 
Woman's  Curse. 
Scehb  IV.— INTERIOR  OF  THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  CONVENT. 
Preparation  for  Taking  the   Veil — Arrival  of  the  King — A  Last  Appeal— 
"Thy  Rival  Banished,  no  other  Love  but   Thee!" — Too  late!     Repent- 
ance Triumphs  !    The  Life  of  Sin  is  Ended!     The  Passage  to  the  Outer 
World  forever  Closed — A  List  Farewell,  and  Heaven  claims  the  Sacri- 

THE  DUCHESS  DE  LA    VALLIERE. 

[For  Stage  Directions  see  page  68.] 


THE   DUCHESS    DE    LA    YAEEIEKE. 


PROLOGUE. 

To  paint  the  Past,  yet  in  the  Past  portray 
Such  shapes  as  seem  dim  prophets  of  to-day  ; — 
To  trace,  through  all  the  garish  streams  of  art, 
Nature's  deep  fountain— woman's  silent  heart  ;— 
On  the  stirr'd  surface  of  the  soften'd  mind 
To  leave  the  print  of  holier  truths  hehind  ;— 
And,  while  through  joy  or  grief— through  calm  or  strife, 
Bound  the  wild  Passions  on  the  course  of  life, 
To  share  the  race— yet  point  the  proper  goal, 
And  make  the  Affections  preachers  to  the  soul  ;— 
Such  is  the  aim  with  which  a  gaudier  a»e 
Now  woos  the  brief  revival  of  the  stage  ; — 
Such  is  the  moral,  though  unseen  it  flows, 
In  Lauznn's  wiles  and  soft  La  Valliere's  woes; 
Such  the  design  our  Author  bjldly  drew, 
And,  losing  boldness,  now  submits  to  you. 

Not  new  to  climes  where  dreamy  fable  dwells— 
That  magic  Prospero  of  the  Isle  of  Spells — 
Now  first  the  wanderer  treads,  with  anxious  fear, 
The  fairy  land  whose  flowers  allured  him  here. 
Dread  is  the  court  our  alien  pleads  before  ; 
Your  verdict  makes  his  exile  from  the  shore. 
Yet,  e'en  if  banish'd,  let  him  think,  in  pride, 
He  trod  the  path  with  no  unhallow'd  guide  ; 
Chasing  the  light,  whose  face,  thoush  veii'd  and  dim, 
Perchance  a  meteor,  seem'd  a  star  to  him, 
Hoping  the  ray  might  rest  where  Truth  appears 
Beneath  her  native  well— your  smiles  and  tears. 

When  a  wide  waste,  to  Law  itself  unknown, 
Lay  that  fair  world  the  Drama  calis  its  own  ; 
When  all  might  riot  on  the  mines  of  Thought, 
And  Genius  starved  amidst  the  wealth  it  wrought ; 
He  who  now  ventures  on  the  haunted  soil 
For  nobler  laborers  won  the  rights  of  toil. 
And  his  the  boast— that  Fame  now  rests  in  ease  ^ 


15 


16  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIERE. 

Beneath  tlie  shade  of  Iter  own  laurei-tiees. 
Yes,  if  with  all  the  critic  on  their  brow, 
His  clients  once  have  grown  his  judges  now, 
And  watch,  like  spirits  on  the  Elysian  side, 
Their  brother  ferried  o'er  the  Stygian  tide, 
To  where,  on  souls  untried,  austerely  sit 
(The  triple  Miuos)— Gallery— Boxes— Pit— 
'Twill  soothe  to  think,  howe'er  the  verdict  end, 
In  every  rival  he  hath  served  a  friend. 

But  well  we  know,  and,  knowing,  we  rejoice, 
The  mightiest  Critic  is  the  public  voice. 
Awed,  yet  resign 'd,  our  novice  trusts  in  you, 
Hard  to  the  practised,  gentle  to  the  new. 
Whate'er  the  anxious  strife  of  hope  and  fear, 
He  asks  no  favor — let  the  stage  be  clear. 
If  from  the  life  his  shapes  the  poet  draws, 
In  man's  deep  breast  lie  all  the  critic's  laws; 
If  not,  in  vain  the  nicely-poised  design, 
Vain  the  cold  music  of  the  labor'd  line, 
Before  our  eyes,  behold  the  living  rules ; — 
The  soul  has  instincts  wiser  than  the  schools  I 
Yours  is  the  great  Tribunal  of  the  Heart, 
And  touch'd  Emotion  makes  the  test  of  Art. 
Judges  august! — the  same  in  every  age, 
"While  Passions  weave  the  sorcery  of  the  Stage — 
While  Nature's  sympathies  are  Art's  best  laws — 
-To  you  a  stranger  has  referr'd  his  cause  ; — 
If  the  soft  tale  he  woos  the  soul  to  hear 
Bequeaths  the  moral,  while  it  claims  the  tear, 
Each  gentler  thought  to  faults  in  others  shown 
He  calls  in  court — a  pleader  for  his  own  ! 


THE  DUCHESS  DE  LA  VALLIERE. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — Time — sunset.  On  the  foreground,  l.,  an  old  chateau  ;  beyond 
vineyards  and  noods  which  present  through  their  openings,  vicivs  of  a 
river,  reflecting  the.  sunset.  At  a  distance,  r  ,  the  turrets  of  the  Convent 
of  the  Carmelices. 

Madame  and  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere  enter  from  chateau. 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  'Tis  our  last  eve,  my  mother  ! 

Mme.  de  la  V.  Thou  regrett'st  it, 

My  own  Louise  !  albeit  the  court  invites  thee — 

A  court  beside  whose  glories,  dull  and  dim 

The  pomp  of  Eastern  kings,  by  poets  told  ; 

A  court 

Mdlle.  De  la  V.  In  which  1  shall  not  see  my  mother! 

Nor  those  old  walls,  in  which,  from  every  stone, 

Childhood  speaks  eloquent  of  happy  years  ; 

Nor  vines  and  woods,  which  bade  me  love  the  earth, 

Nor  yonder  spi:  es,  which  raised  that  love  to  God.  (the  vesper  belt 
tolls) 

The  vesper  bell ! — my  mother,  when,  once  more, 

I  hear  from  those  gray  towers  that  holy  chime, 

May  thy  child's  heart  be  still  as  full  of  heaven, 

And  callous  to  all  thoughts  of  earth,  save  t!u;se 

Which  mirror  Eden  in  the  face  of  Home  ! 
Mme.  de  la  V.  Do  I  not  know  thy  soul  1 — through  every  snare 

My  gentle  dove  shall  'scape  with  spotless  plumes. 

Alone  in  courts,  I  have  no  fear  for  thee  ; 

Some  natures  take  from  Innocence  the  lore 

Experience  teaches;  and  their  delicate  leaves, 

Like  the  soft  plant,  shut  out  all  wrong,  and  shrink 

From  vice  by  instinct,  as  the  wise  by  knowledge  ; 

And  such  is  thine  !     My  voice  thou  wilt  not  hear, 

But  Thought  shall  whisper  where  my  voice  would  warn, 
,     And  Conscience  be  thy  mother  and  thy  guide  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Oh,  may  I  merit  all  thy  care,  and  most 

Thy  present  trust!     Thou'lt  write  to  me,  my  mother, 

And  tell  me  of  thyself;  amidst  the  court 

My  childhood's  images  shall  rise.     Be  kind 

To  the  poor  cotters  in  the  wood — alas  ! 

They'll  miss  me  in  the  winter  ! — and  my  birds  1 — 

Thy  hand  will  feed  them  1 


18  THE   DUCHESS   DE    LA    VALUERS.  [ACT  L 

Mme.  dk  la  V.  And  that  noble  heart 

That  loves  thee  as  my  daughter  should  be  loved — 

The  gallant  Bragelone  1* — should  I  hear 

Some  tidings  Fame  forgets — if  in  the  din 

Of  camps  I  learn  thy  image  makes  his  solace, 

Shall  I  not  write  of  Aim  ? 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  {with  indifference).  His  name  will  breathe 

Of  home  and  friendship — yes  ! 
Mme.  de  la  V.  Of  naught  beside  1 

Mdlle   de  la  V.  Nay,  why  so  pressing  ? — let  me  change  the  theme. 

The  king — you  have  seen  him — is  he,  as  they  say, 

So  fair — so  stately  ! 
Mme.  de  la  V.  Ay,  in  truth,  my  daughter, 

A  king  that  wins  the  awe  he  might  command. 

Splendid  in  peace,  and  terrible  in  war  ; 

Wise  in  council — gentle  in  the  bower. 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.   Strange,  that  so  often  through  mine  early  dreams 

A  royal  vision  flitted— a  proud  form, 

Upon  whose  brow  Nature  had  written  "empire ;" 

While,  on  the  lip, — love,  smiling,  wrapp'd  in  sunshine 

The  charmed  world  that  was  its  worshipper — 

A  form  like  that  which  clothed  the  gods  of  old, 

Lured  from  Olympus  by  some  mortal  maid — 

Youthful  it  seemed — but  with  ambrosial  youth  ; 

And  beautiful — but  half  as  beauty  were 

A  garb  too  earthly  for  a  thing  divine — 

Was  is  not  strange,  my  mother  ?  ' 
Mme.  de  la  V.  A  child's  fancy, 

Breathed  into  life  by  thy  brave  father's  soul. 

He  taught  thee,  in  thy  cradle  yet,  to  lisp 

Thy  sovereiun's  name  in  prayer — and  still  together, 

In  thy  first  infant  creed,  were  link'd  the  lessons 

"  To  honor  God  and  love  the  king  ;"  it  was 

A  part  of  that  old  knightly  faith  of  France 

Which  mnde  it  half  religion  to  be  loyal. 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  It  might  be  so.     I  have  preserved  the  lesson, 

E'en  with  too  weak  a  reverence — Yet,  'tis  strange  ! 

A  dream  so  oft  renew'd  ! 
Mme  de  la.  V.  Here  comes  thy  lover  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  blame  him  if  his  lips  repeat 

The  question  mine  have  asked  ? 

Enter  Bragelone,  r.  2  e. 

Alphonso,  welcome  ! 
Brage.  My  own  Louise  !— ah  !  dare  I  call  thee  so  * 

War  never  seem'd  so  welcome  J  since  we  part, 

Since  the  soft  sunshine  of  thy  smiles  must  fade 

From  these  dear  scenes,  it  soothes,  at  least  to  think 

I  shall  not  linger  on  the  haunted  spot, 

And  feel,  forlorn  amidst  the  gloom  of  absence, 

How  dark  is  all  once  lighted  by  thine  eyes.  (Madame   de  la 
Valliere  retires  into  the  chateau.} 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Can  friendship  flatter  thus — or  wouldst  thou  train 

My  ear  betimes  to  learn  the  courtier's  speech  1 

*  The  author  has,  throughout  this  play,  availed  himself  of  poetical  license  to 
give  to  the  mme  of  Bragelone  the  Italian  pronunciation,  and  to  accent  the  final  e. 


ACT  '•]  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA    VALLIERE. 

Brage.  Louise!  Louise  !  this  is  our  parting  hour; 

Me  war  demands— and  thee  the  court  allures. 

In  such  an  hour,  the  old  romance  allow'd 

The  maid  to  soften  from  her  coy  reserve 

And  her  true  knight,  from  some  kind  words,  to  take 

Hope's  talisman  to  hattle— Dear  Louise  ! 

Say,  canst  thou  love  me  ? 

Mulls   de  la  V.  Sir— I— love-methinks 

It  is  a  word  that 

Bi;age-  Sounds  upon  thy  lips 

Like  "  land  "  upon  the  mariner's,  and  speaks 
Of  home  and  rest  after  a  stormy  sea. 
Sweet  girl,  my  youth  has  pass'd  in  camps  ;  and  war 
Hath  somewhat  scathed  my  manhood  ere  my  time 
Our  years  are  scarce  well-mated ;  the  soft  spring 
Is  thine,  and  o'er  my  summer's  waning  noon 
Grave  autumn  creeps.     Thou  say'st  "  I  flatter  "'—well 
Love  taught  me  first  the  golden  words  in  which 
The  honest  heart  still  coins  its  massive  ore. 
But  fairer  words,  from  falser  lips,  will  soon 
Make  my  plain  courtship  rude.     Louise  !  thy  sire 
Bethroth'd  us  in  thy  childhood  ;  I  have  watch'd  thee 
Bud  into  virgin  May,  and  in  thy  youth 
Have  seeni'd  to  hoard  my  own  !     I  think  of  thee  ! 
And  I  am  youthful  still !     The  passionate  prayer— 
The  wild  idolatry— the  purple  light 
Bathing  the  cold  earth  from  a  Hebe's  urn  ; 
Yea,  all  the  soul's  divine  excess  which  youth 
Claims  as  its  own,  came  back  when  first  I  loved  thee  ! 
And  yet  so  well  I  love,  that  if  thy  heart 
Recoil  from  mine— if  but  one  single  wish, 
A  shade  more  timid  than  the  fear  which  ever 
Blends  trembling  twilight  with  the  starry  hope 
Of  maiden  dreams,  would  start  thee  from  our  union  — 
Speak,  and  my  suit  is  tongueless  ' 
Mdlle.de  la  V.  Oh,  my  lord! 

It  to  believe  all  France's  chivalry 
Boasts  not  a  nobler  champion — if  to  feel 

Proud  in  your  friendship,  honor'd  in  your  trust 

If  this  be  love,  and  I  have  known  no  other 

Why  then 

Brage.  Why  then,  thou  lov'st  me? 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  (aside).  Shall  I  say  it  ? 

I  feel  'twere  to  deceive  him.     Is  it  love? 
Love,  no,  it  is  not  love  !  {aloud)  My  noble  lord, 
As  yet  I  know  not  all  mine  own  weak  heart  • 
I  would  not  pain  thee,  yet  would  not  betray! 
Legend  and  song  have  often  painted  love, 
And  my  heart  whispers  not  the  love  which  should  be 
The  answer  to  thine  own— thou  hadst  best  forget  me ' 
Brage.  Forget ! 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  I  am  not  worthy  of  thee  ' 
Brage  Hold, 

My  soul  is  less  heroic  than  I  deem'd  it. 
Perchance  my  passion  asks  too  much  from  thine 
And  would  forestall  the  fruit  ere  yet  the  blossom 
Blushes  from  out  the  coy  and  maiden  leaves. 


19 


20  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIERE.  [ACT  L 

No  !  let  me  love  ;  and  say,  perchance  the  time 
May  come  whe  i  thou  wilt  bid  me  not  forget  thee. 
Absence  may  plead  my  cause  ;  it  hath  some  magic  ; 
I  fear  not  contrast  with  the  courtier  herd ; 
And  thou  art  not  Louise  if  thou  art  won 
By  a  smootli  outside  and  a  honey'd  tongue. 
No!  when  thou  seest  these  hunters  after  power, 
These  shadows,  minion'd  to  the  royal  sun — 
Proud  to  the  humble,  servile  to  the  great — 
Perchance  tbou'lt  learn  how  much  one  honest  heart, 
That  never  wrong'd  a  friend  or  shunn'd  a  foe — 
How  much  the  old  hereditary  knighthood, 
Faithful  to  God,  to  glory,  and  to  love, 
Outweighs  a  universe  of  cringing  courtiers  ! 
Louise,  I  ask  no  more — I  bide  my  time  1 

Re-enter  Madame    de  la  Valuere/tow  the  chateau. 

Mme.  de  la  V.  The  twilight  darkens.     Art  thou,  now,  Alphonso, 

Convinced  her  heart  is  such  as  thou  wouldst  have  it? 
Brage.  It  is  a  heavenly  tablet — but  my  name 

G>od  angels  have  not  writ  there  ! 
Mme.  de  la  V.  Nay,  as  yet, 

Love  wears  the  mask  of  friendship  ;  she  must  love  thee. 
Brage.    (half  incredulously) .   Think'st  thou  sol 
Mme.  de  la  V.  Ay,  be  sure  ! 

Brage.  I'll  think  so  too. 

(turns  to  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere) 

Bright  lady  of  my  heart !  (aside)  By  Heaven  !  'tis  true  ! 

The  rose  grows  richer  on  her  cheek,  like  hues 

That  in  the  silence  of  the  virgin  dawn, 

Predict,  in  blushes,  light  that  glads  the  earth. 

Her  mother  spoke  aright — ah,  yes,  she  loves  me ! 

(aloud)  Bright  lady  of  my  heart,  farewell !  and  yet 

Again  farewell ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Honor  and  health  be  with  you  ! 

Mme.  de  la  V.  Nay,  my  Louise,  when  warriors  wend  to  battle, 

The  maid  they  serve  grows  half  a  warrior,  too  ; 

And  does  not  blush  to  bind  on  mailed  bosoms 

The  banner  of  her  colors. 
Brage.  Dare  I  ask  it  ? 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  A  soldier's  child  could  never  blush,  my  lord, 

To  belt  so  brave  a  breast; — and  yet — well,  wear  it.   (placing  hey 
scarf  around  Bragelone's  hauberk.) 
Brage.  Ah  !  add  for  thy  sake. 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  For  the  sake  of  one 

Who  hoMors  worth,  and  ne'er  since  Bayard  fell, 

Have  banners  flaunted  o'er  a  knight  more  true 

To  France  and  Fame ; 

Brage.  And  love  ? 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Nay,  hush,  my  lord; 

I  said  not  that. 
Brage.  But  France  and  Fame  shall  say  it ! 

Yes,  if  thou  hear'st  men  speak  of  Bragelone. 

If  proudest  chiefs  confess  he  bore  him  bravely, 

Coma  life,  come  death,  his  glory  shall  be  thine ; 

And  all  the  light  it  brrowed  from  thine  eyes, 


^CT  I.]  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VAXLIERE.  21 

Shall  gild  thy  name.     Ah,  scorn  not  then  to  say, 

"  Ho  loved  me  well !  "     How  well !    God  shield  and  bless  thee ! 

[Exit  Bragelone,  s.  2  e. 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  {aside).  Most  worthy  love!  why  can  I  love  liim  not  ! 
Mme.  he  la  V.  Peace  to  his  gallant  heart!  when  next  we  meet, 

May  I  have  gained  a  son — and  thou 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  {quickly).  My  mother, 

This  night  let  every  thought  he  given  to  thee! 

Beautiful  scene,  farewell — farewell,  my  home! 

And  thou,  gray  convent,  whose  inspiring  chime 

Measures  the  hours  with  prayer,  that  morn  and  eve 

Life  may  ascend  the  ladder  of  the  angels, 

And  climb  to  heaven  !     Serene  retreats,  farewell ! 

And  now,  ray  mother — no  !  some  hours  must  yet 

Pass  ere  our  parting. 
Mme.  de  la  V.  Cheer  thee,  my  Louise! 

And  let  us  now  within  ;  the  dews  are  falling — 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  And  I  forget  how  ill  thy  frame  may  bear  them. 

Pardon! — within,    within!    [stopping   short,   and  gazing  fondly   on 
Madami:  de  la  Valliere)  Your  hand,  dear  mother  ! 

[Exeunt  into  chateau. 

SCENE  11.— An  old  armory,  of  the  heavy  French  Architecture  preceding  the 
time  of  Francis  the  First,  in  tlie  castle  of  Bkagelone.  Bertrand,  the 
armorer,  employed  in  polishing  a  sword,  enters,  l.Ie, 

Ber.     There  now  !     I  think  this  blade  will  scarcely  shame 
My  gallant  master's  hand  ;  it  was  the  weapon, 
So  legends  say,  with  which  the  old  Lord  Rodolph 
Slew,  by  the  postern  gate,  his  lady's  leman  ! 
Oh,  we're  a  haughty  race — we  old  French  lords; 
Our  honor  is  unrusted  as  our  steel, 
And,  when  provoked,  as  ruthless ! 

Enter  Bragelone,  r.  1  e.,  without  sword. 

Brage.  Ah,  old  Bertrand  ! 

Why,  your  brave  spirit,  'mid  these  coats  of  mail, 

Grows  young  again.     So  !  this,  then,  is  the  sword 

You'd  have  me  wear.     God  wot !  a  tranchant  blade  ! 

Not  of  the  modern  fashion. 
Ber.  My  good  lord, 

Yourself  are  scarcely  of  the  modern  fashion. 

They  tell  me,  that  to  serve  one's  king  for  nothing, 

To  deem  one's  country  worthier  than  one's  self, 

To  hold  one's  honor  not  a  phrase  to  swear  by — 

They  tell  me  now,  all  this  is  out  of  fashion. 

Come,  take  the  sword,  my  lord  ;  {offering  it)  you  have  your  father's 

Stout  arm  and  lordly  heart ;  they're  out.  ol  fashion, 

And  yet  you  keep  the  one — come,  take  the  other. 
Bkage.  Why,  you  turn  satirist!  {takes  the  sword,) 
jjer.  Satirist!  what  is  that  1 

Brage.  Satirists,  my  friend,  are  men  who  speak  the  truth 

That  courts  may  say,  they  do  not  know  the  fashion  ! 

Satire  on  Vice  is  Wit's  revenge  on  fools 

That  slander  Virtue,  {examines  sword)  How  now  !  look  ye,  Bertrand  ! 

Methinks  there  is  a  notch  here. 


22  THE   DUCHESS   DE   EA   VAELIERE.  [ACT  I. 

Bbb.  •  Ah,  my  lord ! 

I  would  not  grind  it  out ; — 'twas  here  tlie  blade 

Clove  through,  the  helmet,  e'en  to  the  chin, 

Of  that  irreverent  and  most  scoundrel  Dutchman, 

Who  sUibb'd  you  through  your  hauberk-joints — what  time 

You  placed  your  breast  before  the  king. 
Bkaok.  Hence,  ever 

Be  it  believed,  that,  in  his  hour  of  need, 

A  king's  sole  safeguard  are  his  subjects'  hearts  ! 

Ila  !  ha  !  good  sword  !  that  was  a  famous  stroke  ! 

Thou  didst  brave  deeds  that  day,  thou  quaint  old  servant, 

Though  now — thou'rt  not  the  fashion,   (hands  bock  the  sword.) 
Bbr.  Bless  that  look, 

And  that  glad  laugh  !  •  they  bring  me  back  the  day 

When  first  old  Bertrand  arm'd  you  for  the  wars, — 

A  fair- faced  stripling;  yet,  beshrew  my  heart, 

You  spun  'd  that  field  before  the  bearded  chins, 

And  saved  the  gallant  Lord  La  Valliore's  standard, 

And  yet  you  were  a  stripling  then  . 
Brage.  La  Vallicre  ! 

The  very  name  goes  dancing  through  my  vein:,. 

Bertrand,  look  round  the  armory.     Is  there  naught 

I  wore  that  first  campaign  1     Nay,  nay  !  no  matter  ! 

I  wear  the  name  within  me.     Hark  ye,  Bertrand  ! 

We're  not  so  young  as  then  we  were  ;  when  next 

We  meet,  old  friend,  we  both  will  end  our  labors, 

And  find  some  nook,  amidst  yon  antique  tropies, 

Wherein  to  hang  this  idle  mail. 
Bun.  Huzza! 

The  village  dames  speak  truth — my  lord  will  marry  ! 

And  I  shall  nurse,  in  these  old  wither'd  arms, 

Another  boy — for  Fiance  another  hero. 

Ha  !  ha !  I  am  so  happy  ! 
Brage.  Good  old  man  ! 

Why  this  looks  like  my  father's  hall — since  thus 

My  father's  servants  love  me. 
Ber.  All  must  love  you! 

Br.  age.  All — let  me  think  so.  [bugle  without,  L.)  Hark,  the  impatient  bugle ! 

I  hear  the  neigh  of  my  exultant  charger, 

Breathing  from  far  the  glorious  air  of  war. 

Give  me  the  sword  !  (lakes  it,  and  girdles  it  on.) 

Enter  Servant,  l.  1  E.,  with  a   letter,  which  he  hands  to   Bragelone,  and 

exits. 

Her  mother's  hand — "  Louise, 
Arrived  at  court,  writes  sadly,  and  amidst 
The  splendor  pines  for  home," — I  knew  she  would  ! 
My  own  Louise  ! — "  speaks  much  of  the  king's  goodness  ; " 
Goodness  to  her  ! — that  thought   shall  give  the  king 
.     A  tenfold  better  soldier  ! — "  From  thy  friend, 
Who  trusts  ere  long  to  hail  thee  as  her  son." 
Her  son ! — a  blessed  name.     These  lines  shall  be 
My  heart's  true  shield,  and  ward  away  each  weapon. 
He  who  shall  wed  Loui?e  has  conquer'd  Fate, 
And  smiles  at  earthly  foes,  {bugle  without,  l.)  Again  the  bugle  ! 
Give  me  your  hand,  old  man.     My  fiery  youth 


AC!  I.]  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIKKE.  23 

Went  not  to  battle  with  so  blithe  a  soul 

As  now  burns  in  me.     So  !  she  pines  for  home— 

I  knew  she  would — I  knew  it !     Farewell,  Bertrand  ! 

[Exit  Bkagelone,  l.  j  !■:. 
Bee.     Oh!   there'll  \>3  merry  doings  in  the  ball 

When  my  dear  lord  returns.     A  merry  wedding ! 
And  then — and  then— oh,  such  a  merry  christening! 
How  well  I  fancy  his  grave,  manly  face 
Brightening  upon  his  first  born. 

As  he  is  going,  re-enter  Bragelose. 

I  j  rage.  Ho,  there  !   Bertrand! 

One  charge  I  had  forgot— Be  sure  they  train 
The  woodbine  richly  round  the  western  wing— 
My  mother's  old  apartment.      Well,  man,  well ! 
Dj  you  not  hear  me  V 

Ber.  You,  my  lord  !  the  woodbine  1 

Brage.  Yes  ;  see  it  duly  done.     I  know  she  loves  it ; 
It  clambers  round"  her  lattice.     I  would  not  • 
Have  on?  thing  absent  she  could  miss.    Remember. 

[Exit  Bkagelone,  l  1  v.. 

Ber.  And  this  is  he  whom  warriors  call  "  the  Stern  !" 
The  dove's  heart  beats  beneath  that  lion  breast. 
Pray  Heaven  his  lady  may  deserve  him  !     Oh, 
What  news  for  my  good  dame  !— i'  faith,  I'm  glad 
I  was  the  first  to  learn  the  secret.     So, 
This  year  a  wife — next  year  a  boy  !     I'll  teach 
The  voting  rogue  how  his  father  clove  the  Dutchman 
Down  to  the  chin  !  (chuckling  merrily)   Ha,  ha  !  old  Bertrand  now 
Will  be  of  u-e  again  on  winter  nights — 
I  know  he'll  be  the  picture  of  his  father.   [Exit  Bertrand,  l.  X  e. 

SCENE  III  —  An  antechamber  in  the  Palace  of  Fontaineblcau. 

Enter  Lauzux,  l.  1  e  ,  and  Grammont,  r.  1  e. 

L\u.  Ah,  Count,  good  day  !     Were  you  at  court  last  night  1 
Guam.  Yes  ;  and  the  court  has  grown  the  richer  by 

A  young  new  beauty. 
Lau.  So  !  her  name  ? 

Gram.  La  Valliere. 

Lau.  Ay,  I  have  heard  !  a  maid  of  honor  1 
Gram.  Yes. 

The  women  say  she's  plain. 
Lau.  The  women?  oh, 

The  case  it  is  that's  plain — she  must  be  lovely. 
G.iam.  The  dear,  kind  gossips  of  the  court  declare 

The  pretty  novice  hath  conceived  a  fancy  — 

A  wild,  romantic,  innocent,  strange  fancy — 

For  our  young  king ;  a  girlish  love,  like  that 

Told  of  in  fairy  tales  ;  she  saw  his  picture, 

Sigh'd  to  the  canvas,  murmur'd  to  the  colors, 

And  fell  in  love  with  carmine  and  gambose. 
L\u.     The  simple  dreamer  !     Well,  she  saw  the  king "? 
Gram.  And  while  she  saw  him,  like  a  ro^e,  when  May 

Breathes  o'er  its  bending  bloom,  she  seem'd  to  shrink 


24  THE  DUCHESS   DE   LA   VAEEIKRE.  [ACT  L 

Into  lier  modest  self,  and  a  low  sigli 

Shook  bluslies  i sweetest  rose-leaves  \)  from  her  beauty. 
Lao.     You  paint  it  well. 
Guam.  And  ever  since  that  hour 

She  bears  the  smiling  malice  of  her  comrades 

With  an  unconscious  and  an  easy  sweetness  ; 

As  if  alike  her  virtue  and  his  greatness 

Made  love  impossible ;  so  down  the  stream 

Of  purest  thought,  her  heart  glides  on  to  danger. 
Lau.  Did  Louis  note  her  1 — Has  he  heard  the  gossip  ? 
Guam    Neither,  melhinks  ;  his  Majesty  is  cold. 

The  art  of  pomp,  and  nut  the  art  of  love, 

Tutors  his  skill — Augustus  more  than  Ovid. 
'.At/.     The  time  will  come.     The  king  as  yet  is  young, 

Flush'd  with  the  novelty  of  sway,  and  fired 

With  the  great  dream  of  cutting  Dutchmen's  throats  ; 

A  tiresome  dream — the  poets  call  it  "  Glory." 
Guam.  So  much  the  better — 'tis  one  rival  less  ; 

The  handsome  king  would  prove  a  dangerous  suitor. 
Lau.     Oh,  hang  the  danger  !     He  must  have  a  mistress  ; 

'Tis  an  essential  to  a  court;  how  many 

Favors,  one  scarcely  likes  to  ask  a  king, 

One  flatters  from  a  king's  inamorata  ! 

We  courtiers  fatten  on  the  royal  vices  ; 

And,  while  the  king  lives  chaste,  he  cheats,  he  robs  me 

Of  ninety-nine  per  cent.  ! 
Gram.  Ha!  ha!     Well,  duke, 

We  meet  to-night.     You  join  the  revels? 

Till  then,  adieu. 
Law.  Adieu,  dear  count.     [Exit  Grammont,  l.  1  e. 

The  king 

Must  have  a  mistress;   I  must  lead  that  mistress. 

The  times  are  changed — 'twas  by  the  sword  and  spear, 

Our  fathers  bought  ambition  —  vulvar  butchers  ! 

But  now  our  wit's  our  spear — intrigue  our  armor  ; 

The  antechamber  is  our  field  of  battle  ; 

And  the  best  hero  is — the  cleverest  rogue ! 

[Exit  Lauzun,  k.  1  e. 

SCENE  IV. — Night — the  garden  of  the  Eontaiwbleau,  brilliantly  illuminated 
with  colored  lamps — Fountains,  vases,  and  statues  in  perspective* — A 
pavilion  in  the  background — to  the  right,  the  Palace  of  Fontaincbleau,  illu- 
minated. Enter  Courtiers,  Ladies,  etc.,  h.  u.  e.,  and  Lauzun,  c.  A 
dance. 

Enter  Louis,  r.  u.  e.,  folloived  bg  Courtiers,  etc. 

Louis.  Fair  eve  and  pleasant  revels  to  you  all  ! 

Ah,  duke — a  word  with  you!  (Courtiers  give  way.) 

Thou  hast  seen,  my  Lauzun, 
The  new  and  fairest  flowret  of  our  court. 
This  youngest  of  the  graces — sweet.  La  Valliere, 
Blushing  beneath  the  world's  admiring  eyes  1 
Lau.    {aside).    So.    so! — he's    caught!    (aloud)    Your    Majesty   speaks 
warmly ; 
Your  praise  is  just — and  grateful 

Tiie   effect  of  the  scene  should  be  principally  made  by  jets-d'eau,  waterfalls,  etc. 


ACT  I.]  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VAXlLLEKE.  25 

Louis.  Grateful  ? 

Lau.  Ay. 

Know  you  not,  Sire,  it  is  the  jest,  among 

The  pretty  prattlers  of  the  royal  chamber, 

That  this  young  Dian  of  the  woods  has  found 

Endymiori  in  a  king — a  summer  dream, 

Bright,  but  with  vestal  fancies  !     Scarcely  love, 

But  that  wild  interval  of  hopes  and  fears 

Through  which  the  child  glides,  trembling  to  the  woman  ?    ' 
Louis.  Blest  thought !     Oh,  what  a  picture  of  delight 

Your  words  have  painted. 
Lau.  While  we  speak,  behold, 

Through  yonder  alleys,  with  her  sister  planets, 

Your  moonlight  beauty  gleams. 
Louis.  'Tis  she — this  shade 

Shall  hide  us — quick  !  (enters  one  of  the  bosquets*  l.  2  E.) 
Lau.     (following  him).  I  trust  my  creditors 

Will  grow  the  merrier  from  this  night's  adventure. 

Enter  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere,  e.  u.  e.,  and  Maids  of  Honoh. 
They  advance. 

First  Maid.  How  handsome  looks  the  Duke  de  Guiche,  to-night ! 
Second  Maid.  Well,  to  my  taste,  the  graceful  Grammont  bears 

The  bell  from  all. 
Third  Maid.  But,  then,  that  charming  Lauzun 

Has  so  much  wit. 
First  Maid.  And  which,  of  all  these  gallants, 

May  please  the  fair  Valliere  most  1 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  In  truth, 

I  scarcely  mark'd  them  ;  when  the  king  is  by, 

Who  can  have  eye,  or  ear,  or  thought  for  others  1 
First  Maid.  You  raise  your  fancies  high  ! 
Siccond  Maid.  And  raise  them  vainly  ! 

The  king  disdains  all  love  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Who  spoke  of  love  ? 

The  sunflower,  gazing  on  the  Lord  of  Heaven, 

Asks  but  its  sun  to  shine !     AVho  spoke  of  love  1 

And  who  would  wish  the  bright  and  lofty  Louis 

To  stoop  from  glory  1     Love  should  not  confound 

So  great  a  spirit  with  the  herd  of  men. 

Who  spoke  of  love 

First  Maid.  My  country  friend,  you  talk 

Extremely  well ;  but  some  young  lord  will  teach  you 

To  think  of  Louis  less,  and  more  of  love. 
Mdi  le  de  la  V.  Nay,  e'en  the  very  presence  of  his  greatness 

Exalts  the  heart  from  each  more  low  temptation. 

He  seems  to  walk  the  earth  as  if  to  raise 

And  purify  our  wandering  thoughts,  by  fixing 

Thought  on  himself — and  she  who  thinks  on  Louis 

Shuts  out  the  world,  and  scorns  the  name  of  love  ! 
First  Maid.  Wait  till  you're  tired,  (music)  But  hark  !  the  music  chides 
us 

For  wailing  this  most  heavenly  night  so  idly. 

Come,  let  us  join  the  dancers  !         [Exeunt  Maids,  l.  2  and  3  e. 

*  Bosquet  is  a  small  arbor  or  shady  retreat. 


26  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIERE.  [ACT  It 

As   La  Valliere  follows,  the  King  steals  from  the  bosquet,  and  takes  her 
hand,  while  Lauzun  retires  in  the  opposite  direction. 

Lotus.  Sweet  La  Valliere  ! 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Ah  ! 

Locus.  Nay,  fair  lady,  fly  not,  ere  we  welcome 

Her  who  gives  night  its  beauty  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Sire,  permit  me  ! 

My  comrades  wait  me. 
Louis.  What !  my  loveliest  subject 

So  soon  a  rebel  ?     Silent !     Well,  be  mute, 

And  teach  the  world  the  eloquence  of  blushes. 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  I  may  not  listen 

Louis.  What  if /had  set 

Thyself  the  example  1     What  if /had  listen'd, 

Veil'd  by  yon  friendly  boughs,  and  dared  to  dream 

That  one  blest  word  which  spoke  of  Louis  absent 

Might  charm  his  presence,  and  make  nature  music  ? 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  You  did  not,  Sire  !  you  could  not! 
Louis.  Could  not  hear  thee  ! 

Nor  pine  for  these  divine,  unwitness'd  moments, 

To  pray  thee,  dearest  lady,  to  divorce 

No  more  the  thought  of  love  from  him  who  loves  thee. 

And — faithful  still  to  glory — swears  thy  heart 

Unfolds  the  fairest  world  a  king  can  conquer! 

Hear  me,  Louise. 
Mdlle   de  la  V.  No  Sire  ;  forget  those  words  ! 

I  am  not  what  their  foolish  meaning  spoke  me, 

But  a  poor  simple  girl,  who  loves  her  king, 

And  honor  more.     Forget,  and  do  not  scorn  me !  • 

[Exit  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere,  l.  '2  v.. 
Louis.  Her  modest  coyness  fires  me  more  than  all 

Her  half  unconscious  and  most  virgin  love  ! 

Enter  Courtiers,  Maids  of  Honor,  Ladies,  Guests,  etc.,  l.  c.    Lauzun 
advances,  Grammont  and  Montespan  enter,  r.  c. 

Well,  would  the  dancers  pause  awhile? 
Lau.  E'en  pleasure 

Wearies  at  last. 
Louis.  We've  but  to  change  its  aspect 

And  it  resumes  its  freshness.     Ere  the  banquet 

Calls  us,  my  friends,  we  have  prepared  a  game 

To  shame  the  lottery  of  this  life,  wherein 

Each  prize  is  neighbor'd  by  a  thousand  blanks. 

Methinks  it  is  the  duty  of  a  monarch 

To  set  the  balance  right,  and  bid  the  wheel 

Shower  naught  but  prizes  on  the  hearts  he  loves. 

What  ho,  there  !  with  a  merry  music,  raise 

Fortune,  to  show  how  Merit  conquers  Honors  !   [music.) 

The  pavilion  at  the  back  of  the  stage  opens,  and  discovers  the  Temple  of  For- 
tune superbly  illuminated.  Fortune  ;  at  her  feet,  a  wheel  of  light ;  at 
either  hand,  a  golden  vase,  over  each  of  which  presides  a  figure — the  one 
representing  Merit,  the  other  Honor. 

Louis.  Approach,  fair  dames  and  gallants  !     Aye,  as  now, 


ACT  n.]  THE  DUCHESS  DE  LA  VALLIEEE.  27 

May  Fortune  smile  upon  the  friends  of  Louis!  [the  Courtiers 
and  Ladies  group  around  the  vases.  From  the  one  over  which 
Merit  presides  they  draw  lots,  and  receive  in  return  from  Honor, 
various  gifts  of  Jewels,  etc.) 

Enter  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere,  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  and  advan- 
ces, L. 

Louis  [to  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vallierej.  Nay,  if  you  smile  not  on 
me,  then  the  scene 

Hath  lost  its  charm. 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Oh,  Sire,  all  eyes  are  on  us  ! 
Louis.  All  eyes  should  learn  where  homage  should  be  render'd. 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  I  pray  you,  Sire 

Lau.  Wilt  please  your  Majesty 

To  try  your  fortune  ? 
Louis.  Fortune  !     Sweet  La  Valliere, 

I  only  seek  my  fortune  in  thine  eyes,  (music.     Louis  draws,  an  i 
receives  a  diamond  bracelet.     Ladies  croivd  round ) 
First  Lady.  How  beautiful ! 

Second  Lady.  Each  gem  is  worth  a  duchy  ! 

Third  Lady.  Oh,  happy  she  upon  whose  arm  the  king 

Will  bii.d  the  priceless  band! 
Louis  (approaching    Mademoiselle    de    la  Valliere).     Permit     me, 

lady  !   [clasps  the  bracelet.) 
Lau.  Well  done— well  play'd  !     In  that  droll  game  call'd  Woman, 

Diamonds  are  always  trumps  for  hearts. 
First  Lady.  Her  hair's 

Too  light ! 
Second  Lady.  Her  walk  is  so  provincial ! 

Third  Lady.  D'ye  think  she  paints  ? 
Lac.  Ha,  ha  !     What  envious  eyes, 

What  fawning  smiles  await  the  king's  new  mistress  ! 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — TJie  gardens  of  the  Fontainebleau. 

Enter  Bragelone,  l.  u.  e. 

Brage.  (advancing).  Why  did  we  suffer  her  to  seek  the  court  ? 
It  is  a  soil  in  which  the  reptile  Slander 
Still  coils  in  slime  around  the  fairest  flower. 
Can  it  be  true  7 — Strange  rumors  pierced  my  tent 
Coupling  her  name  with — pah — how  foul  the  thought  is  ! — 
The  maid  the  king  loves  ! — Fie  !     I'll  not  believe  it ! 
I  left  the  camp — sped  hither  ;  if  she's  lost, 
Why  then — down — down,  base  heart !  wouldst  thou  suspect  her 
Thou— who  shouldst  be  her  shelter  from  suspicion  ? 
But  I  may  warn,  advise,  protect,  and  save  her — 
Save — 'tis  a  fearful  word  ! 

Enter  Lauzun,  r.  u.  e. 

Lau.  Lord  Bragelone ! 


28  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   V.VLUKRE.  [ACT  XI. 

Methought  your  warrior  spirit  never  breathed 

The  air  of  palaces  !     No  evil  tidings, 

I  trust,  from  Dunkirk  ? 
Brage.  No.     The  Jlcur-de-lis 

Rears  her  white  crest  unstain'J.     Mine  own  affairs 

Call  me  to  court. 
Lau.  Affairs  1     I  hate  the  word  ; 

It  sounds  like  debts. 
Brage.  (aside).  This  courtier  may  instruct  me. 

(aloud)  Our  king — he  bears  him  well  ? 
Lau.  Oh,  bravely,  Marquis  ; 

Engaged  with. this  new  palace  of  Versailles. 

It  costs  some  forty  millions  ! 
Brace  Ay,  the  people 

Groan  at  the  burthen. 
Lau.  People — what's  the  people  ? 

I  never  heard  that  word  at  court !     The  people  ! 
Brace.  I  doubt  not,  duke.     The  people  like  the  air, 

Is  rarely  heard,  save  when  it  speaks  in  thunder. 

I  pray  you  grace  for  that  old  fashion'd  phrase. 

What  is  the  latest  news  ? 
Lac.  His  Majesty 

Dines  half  an  hour  before  his  usual  time. 

That's  the  last  news  at  court ! — it  makes  sensation  ! 
Brage.  Is  there  no  weightier  news  1     I  heard  at  Dunkirk 

How  the  king  loved  a — loved  a  certain  maideu — 

The  brave  La  Valliere's  daughter. 
Lau.  How,  my  lord, 

How  can  you  vegetate  in  such  a  place  ? 

I  fancy  the  next  tidings  heard  at  Dunkirk 

Will  be  that — Adam's  dead  ! 
Brage.  The  news  is  old,  then  ? 

Lau.     News  !  news,  indeed  !     Why,  by  this  time,  our  lackeys 

Have  worn  the  gossip  threadbare.     News  ! 
Brage.  The  lady 

(S'.ie  is  a  soldier's  child)  hath  not  yet  bartered 

Her  birthright  for  ambition  1     She  rejects  him  ? 

Speak  ! — She  rejects  him  7 
Lau.  Humph ! 

Brage.  Oh,  duke,  I  know 

This  courtier  air — this  most  significant  silence  — 

With  which  your  delicate  race  are  wont  to  lie 

Away  all  virtue  !     Shame  upon  your  manhood  ! 

Speak  out,  and  say  Louise  La  Valliete  lives 

To  prove  to  courts — that  woman  can  be  honest ! 
Lau.     Marquis,  you're  warm. 
Brage.  You  dare  not  speak;  I  knew  it! 
Lau.  Dare  not  1 

Brace.  Oh,  yes,  you  dare,  with  hints  and  smiles 

To  darken  fame — to  ruin  the  defenceless, 

Blight  with  a  gesture — wither  with  a  sneer! 

Did  I  say  "  dare  not  ?" — No  man  dares  it  better  ! 
Lau.     My  lord,  these  words  must  pass  not ! 
Brage.  Duke,  forgive  me ! 

I  am  a  rough,  stern  soldier — taught  from  youth 

To  brave  offence,  and  by  the  sword  alone 

Maintain  the  license  of  my  speech.     Oh,  say — 


ACT  H.j  THE  DUCHESS  DE  LA  VAELIEEE.  29 

Say  but  one  word— say  this  poor  maid  is  sinless, 

And,  for  her  father's  sake — [her  father  loved  me  !) 

I'll  kneel  to  thee  for  pardon  ! 
Lau.  Good,  my  lord, 

I  know  not  your  interest  in  this  matter  ; 

'Tis  said  that  Louis  loves  the  fair  La  Valliere  ; 

But  what  of  that — good  taste  is  not  a  crime  ! 

'Tis  said  La  Valliere  does  not  hate  the  king  ; 

But  what  of  that — it  does  but  prove  her — loyal ! 

1  know  no  more.     I  trust  you're  satisfied  ; 

If  not 

Bragk.  Thou  liest! 

Lau.  Nay,  then,  draw !  \thcg  fight — after  a  few 

passes  Lauzcx  is  d  sunned.) 
Brage.  {picking  up  Lauzuh's  sword).  There,  take 

Thy  sword.     Alas  !  each  slanderer  wears  a  weapon 

No  honest  arm  can  baffle — this  is  edgeless.  (  Lauzun  receives  sword.\ 

[Exit  Bkagelone,  r.  u.  e. 
Lau.     Pleasant !     This  comes,  now,  of  one's  condescending 

To  talk  with  men  who  caunot  understand 

The  tone  of  good  society.     Poor  fellow  !  [Exit  Lauzun,  r.  u.  e. 

Enter  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere,  l.  u.  e. 

Mdlle.de  la  V.   {advancing  to  c  ).   He  loves  me,  then  !     He  loves  me  ! 
Love!  wild  word  ! 
Did  I  say  love  ?     Dishonor,  shame,  and  crime 
Dwell  on  the  thought!  and  yet — and  yet — he  loves  me  ! 

Re-enter  Bragelone.     He  pauses.     She  takes  out  the  King's  picture. 

Mine  early  dreams  were  prophets!  (Brageloxe  advances)  Steps! 
The  king  1 
Brage.  No,  lady  ;  pardon  me — a  joint  mistake  ; 

Ton  sought  the  king — and  1  Louise  Li  Valliere  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  You  here,  my  lord  ! — \ou  here! 
Brage.  There  was  a  maiden 

Fairer  than  many  fair  ;  but  sweet  and  humble, 

And  good  and  spotless,  through  the  vale  of  life 

She  walk'd,  her  modest  path  with  blessings  strew'd 

(For  all  men  bless'd  her)  ;  from  her  crystal  name, 

Like  the  breath  i'  the  mirror,  even  envy  passed  ; 

I  sought  that  maiden  at  the  court;  none  knew  her. 

May  I  ask  you — where  now  Louise  La  Valliere  ? 
Mdlle.  Dr  la  V.  Cruel — unjust!     You  were  my  father's  friend, 

Dare  you  speak  thus  to  me  1 
Brage.  Dare  !  dare  !     'Tis  well  ! 

Y<>u  hav?  learnt  your  state  betimes 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  My  state,  my  lord  1 

I  know  not  by  what  right  you  thus  assume 

The  privilege  of  insult ! 
Brage.  Ay,  reproach  ! 

The  harlot's  trick — for  shame !     Oil,  no,  your  pardon  ! 

You  are  too  high  for  shame;  and  so — farewell  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  My  lord  ! — my  lord,  in  pity — No — in  justice, 

Leave  me  not  thus  ! 
Brage.  Louise ! 


30  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIERE.  [ACT  H. 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Have  they  belied  me  1 

Speak,  my  good  lord  !     What  crime  liave  I  committed  1 
Brage.  No  crime— at  courts!     'Tis  only  Heaven  and  Honor 

Tlut  deem  it  aught  but — most  admired  good  fortune  ! 

Many,  who  sweep  in  careless  pride  before 

The  shrinking,  spotless,  timorous  Li  Vail. ere, 

Will  now  fawn  round  thee,  and  with  bended  knees 

Implore  sweet  favor  of  the  kind's  kind  mistress. 

Ha  !  ha  !  this  is  not  crime  !     Who  calls  it  crime  ? 

Do  prudes  say  "  Crime  ?"     0  >,  bribe  them,  and  they'll  swear 

Its  name  is  greatness.     Crime,  indeed  ! — ha,  ha  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  My  heart  finds  words  at  length  !    'Tis  false  ! 
Brage.  'Tis  fal  ■■■  : 

Why,  speak  again  !     Say  once  more  it  is  false — 

"His  false — again  'tis  fake  .' 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Alas  !  I'm  wretched  ! 

Bragg.  No,  lady,  no  !  not  wretched,  if  not  guilty  !  (Mademoiselle  i>3 
la  Yalliere,  after  walking  to  and  fro  in  great  agitation,  m  u 
herself  on  the  bench,  l..  and  covers  he?  face  with  her  haiidt  ) 

(aside)  Are  these  the  tokens  of  remorse?     No  matter  ! 

I  love  1  her  well!     And  love  is  pride,  not  love, 

If  it  forsake  e'en  guilt  amidst  its  sorrows  ! 

(aloud)  Louise!  Louise!     Speak  to  thy  friend,  Louise ! 

Thy  father's  friend — thine  own! 
Mdlle.  DE  la  V.  This  bated  court! 

Why  came  I  hither'?     Wherefore  have  I  close! 

My  beart  against  its  own  most  pleading  dictates  ? 

Why  clung  to  virtue,  if  the  brand  of  vice 

Sear  my  good  name  1 
Brage.  That,  when  thou  pray'sf  to  Heaven, 

Thy  soul  may  ask  for  comfort — not  forgiveness  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  {rising,  eagerly).  A  blessed  thought ! 

I  thank  thee  ! 
Brage.  (a).  Thou  art  innocent! 

Thou  hast  denied  the  king  1 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.   (l   c  )  I  have  denied  him. 

Brage.  Curst  be  the  lies  that  wrong'd  thee  ! — doubly  curst 

The  hard,  the  icy  selfishness  of  soul. 

That,  but  to  pander  to  an  hour's  caprice, 

Blasted  that  flower  of  life — fair  fame  !     Accurst 

The  king  who  casts  his  purple  o'er  his  vices  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Hold  ! — thou  maligu'st  thy  king! 
Brage.  He  spared  not  thee  ! 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  The  king — Heaven  bless  him ! 

Brage  Wouldst  Ihou  madden  me  1 

Thou! — No — thou  lov'st  him  not  I — thou  hid' at  not  thy  face  ! 

Woman,  thou  tremblest !     Lord  of  Hosts,  for  this 

Hast  thou  preserved  me  from  the  foeman's  sword, 

And  through  the  incarnadined  and  raging  seas 

Of  war  upheld  me — made  both  life  and  sou! 

The  sleepless  priests  to  that  fair  idol — Honor  "? 

Was  it  for  this  ?     1  loved  thee  not,  Louise, 

As  gallants  love  1     Thou  wert  this  life's  ideal, 

Breathing  through  earth  the  lovely  and  the  holy, 

And  clothing  Poetry  in  human  beauty  ! 

When  in  this  gloom}*  world  they  spoke  of  sin, 

I  thought  of  thee,  and  smiled — for  thou  wert  sinless! 


ACT  H.]  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALL1ERE.  31 

And  when  they  told  me  of  some  diviner  act 

That  made  oar  nature  noble,  my  heart  whisper'd — 

"  So  would  have  done  Louise  !" — "i'was  thus  I  loved  thee  ! 

To  lose  thee.  I  can  bear  it  ;  but  to  lose, 

With  thee,  all  hope,  all  conn"  lence  of  viitue — 

This — this  is  hard  !     Oh  !  I  am  sick  of  earth  !  {paces  to  and  fro  ) 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Nay,  speak  not  thus — be  gentle  with  me.     Gome, 

I  am  not  what  thou  deem'st  me,  Bragelone  ; 

Woman  I  am,  and  weak.     Support,  advise  me! 

Forget  the  lover,  but  be  still  the  friend. 

Do  not  desert  me — thou  ! 
Bkage.  {stopping  suddenly).  Thou  lov'st  the  king  ! 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  But  1  can  fly  from  love. 

Brage.  Poor  child  !     And  whither  1 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  (appealingly,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm).  Take  me  to 

the  old  castle,  to  my  mother  ! 
Brage.  The  king  can  reach  thee  there  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  He'll  not  attempt  it  ! 

Alas  !  in  courts,  how  quickly  men  forget  ! 
Brage.  Not  till  their  victim  hath  surrender'd  all ! 

Hndst  thou  but  yielded,  why  thou  might'st  have  lived 

Beside  his  very  threshold,  safe,  unheeded  ; 

But  thus,  with  all  thy  bloom  of  heart  unrifled — 

The  fortress  storm'd,  not  conquer'd — why  man's  pride, 

If  not  man's  lust,  would  shut  thee  from  e.seape  ! 

Art  thou  in  earnest — wouldst  thou  truly  fly 

From  gorgeous  infamy  to  tranquil  honor, 

God's  house  alone  may  shelter  thee! 
Mdlle.  dg  la  V.  The  convent ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  to  meet  those  eyes  no  more  ! 

Never  to  hear  that  voice  ! 
Brage.  {departing).  Enough  ! 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Yet,  stay  ! 

I'll  see  him  once  !     One  last  farewell — and  then — 

Yes,  to  the  convent ! 
Brage.  I  have  done — and  yet, 

Ere  I  depart,  (takes  off  scarf  and  offers  it)  take  back  the  scarf  thou 
gav'st  me. 
•   Then  didst  "  thou  honor  worth !"  now,  gift  and  giver 

Alike  are  worthless. 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Worthless  !     Didst  thou  hear  me  1 

Have  I  not  said  that 

Brage.  Thou  wouldst  see  the  king  ! 

Vice  first,  and  virtue  after  !     O'er  the  marge 

Of  the  abyss  thou  tremblest.     One  step  more, 

And  from  all  heaven  the  angels  shall  cry,  "  Lost  /" 

Thou  ask'st  that  single  step  !     Wouldst  thou  be  saved  ? 

Lose  not  a  moment.     Come ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  (in  great  agony).  Beside  that  tree, 

When  stars  shone  soft,  he  vowed  for  aye  to  love  me ! 
Brage.  Think  of  thy  mother  !     At  this  very  hour 

She  blesses  Heaven  that  thou  wert  born — the  last 

Fair  scion  of  a  proud  and  stainless  race. 

To  morrow,  and  thy  shame  may  cast  a  shade 

Over  a  hundred  'scutcheons,  and  thy  mother 

Feel  thou  wert  born  that  she  might  long  to  die  ! 

Come ! 


32  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VAIXIEKE.  [ACT  U. 

Mdlle    de  la  V.  I  am  ready — take  my  hand,  (as  she  puts  out  her  hand, 
her  eye  falls  on  the  bracelet)  Away  ! 

This  is  his  gift !     And  shall  I  leave  him  thus  ? 

Not  one  kind  word  to  break  the  shock  of  parting — 
Brage.  An  I  break  a  mother's  heart  I 
Mdlle  de  la  V.  Ba  still  !     Thou'rt  man  ! 

Thou  canst  not  feel  as  woman  feels  ! — her  weakness 

Thou  canst  not  sound.     0  Louis,  Heaven  protect  thee ! 

May  f;ite  look  on  thee  with  La  Valliere's  eyes  ! 

Now  [  am  ready,  sir.     Thou'st  seen  how  weak 

Woman  is  ever  where  she  loves.     Xow,  learn, 

Proportion'd  to  that  weakness  is  the  strength 

With  which  she  conquers  love  !     0  Louis  !  Louis  ! 

Quick  !   take  me   hence!  (clasping  his  arm   and  bending  down    her 
head) 
Br  age.  {aside).  The  heart  she  wrongs  hath  saved  her  ! 

And  is  that  all  ! — The  shelter  for  mine  age — 

The  Hope  that  was  the  garner  for  affection — 

The  fair  and  lovely  tree,  beneath  whose  shade 

The  wearied  soldier  thought  to  rest  at  last, 

And  watch  life's  sun  go  calm  and  cloudless  down, 

Smiling  the  day  to  sleep — all,  all  lie  shatter'd  ! 

No  matter,  (aloud)  I  have  saved  thy  soul  from  sorrow, 

Whose  hideous  depth  thy  vision  cannot  fathom. 

Jov  ! — I  have  saved  thee! 
Mdlle.  dk  la  V.  Ah  !  when  last  we  parted 

I  told  thee,  of  thy  love  I  was  not  worthy. 

Another  shall  replace  me! 
Brage.  (smiling  sadly) .  Hush!     Another? 

No  !  (replacing  scarf)  See,  1  wear  thy  colors  still !   Though  Hope 

Wanes  from  the  plate,  the  dial  still  remains, 

And  takes  no  light  from  stars  I     I  — /am  nothing  ! 

But  thou — Nay,  weep  not !     Yet  these  tears  are  honest  ; 

Thou  hast  not  lived  to  make  the  Past  one  blot, 

Which  life  in  vain  would   -eep  away  !     Poor  maiden  I 

I  could  not  cheer  thee  then.     Now,  joy ! — I've  saved  thee  ! 
[Exeunt  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere  and  Bragelone.  r.  it.  e. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  King's  cabinet  at  Eontainebleau ;*     Table  c,  covered  wit/) 
papers,  the  King  seated  r.  of  table,  writing. 

Enter  Lauzun,  l.  2  e. 

Louis.  Lauzun.  I  sent  for  you.     Your  zeal  has  served  me, 

And  I  am  grateful.     There,  this  order  gives  you 

The  lands  and  lordship  of  De  Vesci. 
Lad.  (advances,  kneels  ami  receives  the  parchment).  Sire, 

How  shall  I  thank  your  goodness  1 
Louis.  Hush  !— by  silence! 

Lau.  (rising,  aside).  A  king's  forbidden  fruit  has  pretty  windfalls  ! 
Louis.  The  beautiful  Louise  !     I  never  lovsd 

Till  now. 

*  To  some  it  miy  be  interesting  to  remember  that  this  cabinet,  in  which  the  most 
powerful  of  the  Bourbon  kings  is  represented  as  rewarding  the  minister  of  his  pleas- 
ure, is  the  same  as  that  in  which  is  yet  shown  the  table  upon  which  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte (son  of  a  gentleman  of  Corsica),  signed  the  abdication  of  the  titles  and  domin- 
ions of  Charlemagne  I 


ACT  H.]  THE  DUCHESS   DE   EA   VAEEIEHE.  33 

Lau.  She  yields  not  yet  1 

Louis.  But  gives  refusal 

A  voice  that  puts  e'en  passion  to  the  blush 

To  own  one  wish  so  soft  a  heart  denies  it ! 
Lau.    A  woman's  No  !  is  but  a  crooked  path 

Unto  a  woman's  Yes  !     Your  Majesty 

Saw  her  to-day  1 
Louis.  No  ! — Grammont  undertakes 

To  bear,  in  secret,  to  her  hand,  some  lines 

That  pray  a  meeting. — I  await  his  news,  (continues  writing.) 
Lau.    (aside,  advancing,  l.  c).  I'll  not  relate  my  tilt  with  Bragelone. 

First,  I  came  off  the  worst.     No  man  of  sense 

Ever  confesses  that !     And,  secondly, 

This  most  officious,  curious,  hot-brained  Quixote 

Might  make  him  jealous  ;  jealous  kings  are  peevish  ; 

And,  if  he  fall  to  questioning  the  lady, 

She'll  learn  who  told  the  tale,  and  spite  the  teller. 

Oh  !  the  great  use  of  logic  !  (crosses  to  r.) 
Louis.  'Tis  in  vain 

T  strive  by  business  to  beguile  impatience  ! 

How  my  heart  beats  ! — Well,  couut  1 

Enter  Grammont,  l.  2  e. 

Gram.  Alas,  my  liege  ? 

Louis.  Alas  !     Speak  out ! 

Gram.  The  court  has  lost  La  Vallieie  ! 

Louis  (starting  »;;).  Ha  ! — lost ! 

Gram.  She  has  fled,  and  none  guess  whither. 

Louis,  (advancing  quickly  to  c).  Fled! 

I'll  not  believe  it ! — Fled  ! 
Lau.     (r.  c).  What  matters,  Sire  ? 

No  spot  is  sacred  from  the  king ! 
Louis  {passionately,  walking  to  and  fro).     By  Heaven, 

I  am  a  king  ! — Not  all  the  arms  of  Europe 

Could  wrest  one  jewel  from  my  crown.     And  she — 

What  is  my  crown  to  her  1     1  am  a  king! 

Who  stands  between  the  king  and  her  he  loves 

Becomes  a  traitor — and  may  find  a  tryrant ! 

Follow  me  !  [Exit  Louis,  l.  1  e. 

Gram.  Who  e'er  heard  of  Maids  of  Honor 

Flying  from  kings  1 
Lac.  Ah,  had  you  been  a  maid, 

How  kind  you  would  have  been,  you  rogue  ! — Come  on  ! 

[Exeunt  Lauzun  and  Grammont,  l.  1  e. 

SCENE  III. — The  cloisters  of  a  Convent — Night — Thunder  and  lightning,  the 
latter  made  visible  through  the  long  oriel  tvindows. 

Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere  enters,  wearily,  l  2  e. 

Mdlle.  be  la  V.  Darkly  the  night  sweeps  on.     No  thought  of  sleep 
Steals  to  my  heart.     What  sleep  is  to  the  world 
Prayer  is  to  me — life'3  balm,  and  griefs  oblivion  ! 
Yet,  e'en  before  the  altar  of  my  God, 
Unhallow'd  fire  is  raging  through  my  veins — 
Heav'n  on  my  lips,  but  earth  within  my  heart — 


34  THE   DUCHESS    DL    LA    VALUEBE.  [ ACT  II. 

And  while  I  pray  his  memory  prompts  the  prayer, 
And  all  I  ask  of"  Heaven  is,  "  Guard  my  Louis  !  " 
Forget  him — that  I  dare  not  pray  !     I  would  not, 
E'en  if  I  could,  ba  happy,  and  forget  him!  {thunder) 
Roll  on,  roll  on,  dark  chariot  of  the  storm, 
Whose  wheels  are  thunder — the  rack'd  elements 
Can  furnish  forth  no  tempest  like  the  war 
Of  passion  in  one  weak  and  erring  heart !  (the  bell  tolls  one) 
Hark  !  to-night's  funeral  knell  !     How  through  the  roar 
Of  winds  and  thunder  thrills  that  single  sound, 
Solemnly  audible  ! — the  tongne  of  time, 
In  time's  most  desolate  hour— it  bids  us  muse 
On  worlds  which  love  can  reach  not !     Life  runs  fast 
To  its  last  sands !     To  bed,  to  bed  !— to  tears 
And  wishes  for  the  grave  !— to  bed,  to  bed!  (i  trumpet  is  heard 
without,  L.) 

Two  or  three  Nuns  enter,  h.  2  f..,  and  hurry  across  the  stage. 

First  Nun.  Mcst  strange  ! 

Second  Nun.  In  such  a  night,  too  !     The  great  gates 

That  ne'er  unclose  save  to  a  royal  guest, 

Unbarr'd  !  (Nuns  draw  aside  towards  r.  1  e.) 
Mdlle.  de   laV.  What  fear,  what  hope,  by  turns   distracts  me  !  (the 

trumpet  sounds  again.) 
FtusT  Nun.  Hark  !  in  the  court,  the  ring  of  hoofs  ! — the  door 

Creaks  on  the  sullen  hinge  ! 
Lau.  (without).  Make  way— the  king  ! 

Enter  Louis  and  Lauzun,  l.  1  e. 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  (rushing  forward).  Oh,  Louis— oh,  beloved  !  (then  paus- 
ing abruptly)  No,  touch  me  not  ! 

Leave  me  !  in  pity  leave  me  !     Heavenly  Father, 

I  fly  to  thee  !     Protect  me  from  his  arms — 

Protect  me  from  myself ! 
Louis.  Oh  bliss  !     Louise  ! 

Enter  Abbess  and  Nuns,  r.  1  e. 

Abbess.  Peace,  peace !     What  clamor  desecrates  the  shrine 

And  solitudes  of  God  ? 
Lau.  (l.  c).  Madam,  your  knee — 

The  king ! 
Abbess.  The  king  ! — you  mock  me,  sir  ! 

Louis  {quitting  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere).  Behold 

Your  sovereign,  reverend  mother  ! — We  have  come 

To  thank  ycu  for  your  shelter  of  this  lady, 

And  to  reclaim  our  charge 
Abbess.  My  lie2e,  these  walls 

Are  sacred  even  from  the  purple  robe 

And  sceptred  hand. 
Louis.  She  hath  not  ta'en  the  vow  ! 

She's  free — we  claim  her  ! — she  is  of  our  court ! 

Woman, — go  to  ! 
Abbess.  The  maiden.  Sire,  is  free ! 

Your  royal  lips  have  said  it ! — She  is  free  ! 


ACT  II.]  THE  DUCHESS  DE  LA  VALLIKSE.  35 

And  if  this  shrine  her  choice,  whoe'er  compels  her 
Forth  from  the  refuge,  doth  incur  the  curse 
The  Roman  Church  awards  to  even  kings  ! 
Speak,  lady — dost  thou  claim  against  the  court 
The  asylum  of  the  cloister  ? 
Louis.  Darest  thou  brave  us  ? 

Lau.  (aside  to  Louis).  Pardon,  my  liege  ! — reflect !     Let  not  the  world 

Say  that  the  king 

Louis  (aside  to  Lauzun).  Can  break  his  bonds! — Away! 

I  was  a  man  before  I  was  a  king!  (aloud,  approaching  Mademoi- 
selle DE  LA  VALLIERE) 

Lady,  we  do  command  your  presence  !  (lowering  his  voice)  Swec    ! 

Adored  Louise  ! — if  ever  to  your  ear 

My  whispers  spoke  in  music — if  my  life 

Be  worth  the  saving,  do  not  now  desert  me  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Let  me  not  hear  him,  Heaven  ! — Strike  all  my  senses  ! 

Make — make  me  dumb,  deaf,  blind — but  keep  me  honest ! 
Abbess.  Sire,  you  have  heard  her  answer  ! 

Louis  (advancing passionately,  pauses,  and  then  with  great  dignity).  Abbess, 
no ! 

This  lady  was  intrusted  to  our  charge — 

A  fatherless  child  ! — The  king  is  now  her  father  ! 

Madam,  we  would  not  wrong  you ;  but  we  know 

That  sometimes  most  unhallow'd  motives  wake 

Your  zeal  for  converts  ! — This  young  maid  is  wealthy, 

And  nobly  born  ! — Such  proselytes  may  make 

A  convent's  pride  but  oft  a  convent's  victims  ! 

No  more  ! — we  claim  the  right  the  law  awards  us, 

Free  and  alone  to  commune  with  this  maid. 

If  then  her  choice  go  with  you — be  it  so  ; 

We  are  no  tyrant!     Peace! — retire  ! 
Abbess.  My  liege  ! 

Forgive 

Lodis.  We  do  !     Retire  ! 

[Lauzun,  the  Abbess,  etc.,  withdraw,  n.  1  e. 
Louis  (a).  We  are  alone  ! 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Alone  ! — No,  God  is  present,  and  the  conscience  ! 
Louis.  Ah  !  fear'st  thou,  then,  that  heart  that  would  resign 

E'en  love  itself  to  guard  one  pang  from  thee  1 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  I  must  speak  ! — Sire,  if  every  drop  of  blood 

Were  in  itself  a  life,  I'd  shed  them  all 

For  one  hours  joy  to  thee  !     But  fame  and  virtue — 

My  father's  grave — my  mother's  lonely  age — 

These,  these — (thunder)  I  hear  their  voice! — the  fires  of  Heaven 

Seem  to  me  like  the  eyes  of  angels,  and 

Warn  me  against  myself  ! — Farewell ! 
Louis.  Louise, 

I  will  not  hear  thee  !     What!  farewell !  that  word 

Sounds  like  a  knell  to  all  that's  worth  the  living  ! 

Farewell  !  why,  then,  farewell  all  peace  to  Louis, 

And  the  poor  king  is  once  more  but  a  thing 

Of  stale  and  forms.     The  impulse  and  the  passion— 

The  blessed  air  of  happy  human  life — 

The  all  that  made  him  envy  not  his  subjects. 

Dies  in  that  word !     Ah,  canst  thou — dar'st  thou  say  it? 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Oh,  speak  not  thus ! — Speak  harshly  !    threat,  com- 
mand ! — 


36  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA    VAELIKRE.  [ACT  m. 

Be  all  the  king  ! 
Louis  {kneeling}.  The  king  !  he  kneels  to  thee! 

Mdlle.  dk  la  V.  I'm  weak  ! — bo  generous  !     My  own  soul  betrays  me; 

But  thou  betray  me  not ! 
Louis.  Nay,  hear  me,  sweet  one  ! 

Desert  me  not  this  once,  and  I  will  swear 

To  know  no  guiltier  wish — to  curb  my  heart — 

To  banish  hope  from  love — and  nurse  no  dream 

Thy  spotless  soul  itself  shall  blush  to  cherish  ! 

Hear  me,  Louise — thou  lov'st  me  1 
Mdlle.  dk  la  V.  Love  thee,  Louis  ! 

Lnuis.  Thou  lov'st  me — then  confide !     Who  loves  trusts  ever  ! 
Mdlle.  de  la  V.  Trust  thee! — ah  !  dare  I  ¥ 
Louis  (rising  an.l  clasping  her  in  his  arms).       Ay,  till  death !     What  ho  ! 

Lauzun !  I  say  ! 

Lauzun  re-enters  quickly,  and  advances.  , 

Mdlle.  de  la  V.  No,  no  1 

Louis.  Not  trust  me,  dearest  ? 

She  falls  on  his  shoulder.     The  Abbess  re-enters  followed  og  Nuns. 

Abbess.  Still  firm  ! 

Lau.  (l.).  No,  madam  !     Way  there  for  the  king  ! 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.— An  antechamber  in  the  palace  o/ Madame  la  Duchess  de   la 
Valliere,  at  Versailles. 

Enter  Lauzun,  l.  1  e.,  and  Madame  de  Montespan,  r.  1  e. 

Lau.     Ha  t  my  fair  friend,  well  met — how  fairs  Athene  ? 
Mme  de  Mox.    Weary  with  too  ranch  gayety  !     Now,  tell  me  1 

Do  you  ne'er  tire  of  splendor  ?     Does  this  round 

Of  gaudy  pomps — this  glare  of  glitt'ring  nothings — 

Does  it  ne'er  pall  upon  you  ?     To  my  eyes 

'Tis  as  the  earth  would  be  if  turf'd  with  scarlet, 

Without  one  spot  of  green. 
Lau.  We  all  feel  thus 

Until  we  are  used  to  it.     Art  has  grown  my  nature, 

And  if  I  see  green  fields,  or  ill-dress'd  people, 

I  cry  "  How  artificial !"     With  rae,  "  Nature  " 

Is  "  Paris  and  Versailles."     The  word,  "  a  man," 

Means  something  noble,  that  one  sees  at  court. 

Woman's  the  thing  Heaven  made  for  wearing  trinkets 

And  talking  scandal.     That's  my  state  of  nature  ! 

You'll  like  it  soon  ;  you  have  that  temper  which 

Makes  courts  its  element. 
Mme   de  Mon.  And  how  1 — define,  sir. 

Lau.  First,  then — but  shall  I  not  offend  ? 
Mme.  de  Mon.  Be  candid. 

I'd  know  my  faults,  to  make  them  look  like  virtues. 
Lau.    First,  then,  Athene,  you've  an  outward  frankness. 


ACT  in.]  THE   DUCHESS   DS   LA   VAUJKRE. 

D?ceit  in  you  looks  lionester  than  truth. 
Thoughts,  at  court,  like  faces  on  the  stage, 
Require  some  rogue.     You  rogue  your  thoughts  so  well 
That  one  would  deem  their  only  fault,  that  nature 
G  tvo  them  too  bright  a  bloom  ! 
Mmr.  de  Mow.  Proceed  ! 

Lau-    t      ,  .  Your  wit 

Is  ot  the  true  court  breed— it  plays  with  nothings  ; 
-      Just  bright  enough  to  warm,  but  never  burn—  = 

Excites  the  dull,  but  ne'er  offends  the  vain. 

You  have  much  energy  ;  it  looks  like  feeling  ! 

Your  cold  ambition  seems  an  easy  impulse  ° 

Your  head  most  ably  counterfeits  the  heart, 

But  never,  like  the  heart,  betrays  itself  ! 

Oh  !  you'll  succeed  at  court— you  see  I  know  you  ! 

Not  so  this  new-made  duchess—  youncr  La  Valliere 
Mmk.  de  Mon.  The  weak,  fond  fool ! 

Lac*     „  .  ,  Yes,  weak— she  has  a  heart  : 

Yet  you,  too,  love  the  king! 
Mme.  de  Mon.  '    And  slie  does  not  , 

bhe  loves  but  Lows  /—I  but  love  the  king  ; 

Pomp,  riches,  state,  and  power— these,  who  would  love  not  I 
Lau.     Bravo  !  well  said  !     Oh,  you'll  succeed  at  court ! 

I  knew  it  well  !  it  was  for  this  I  chose  you— 

Induced  your  sapient  lord  to  waste  no  more 

Your  beauty  in  the  shade— for  this  prepared 

The  duchess  to  receive  you  to  her  bosom, 

Her  dearest  friend  ;  for  this  have  duly  fed 

The  king's  ear  with  your  praise,  and  clear'd  your  way 

To  rule  a  sovereign  and  to  share  a  throne. 
Mme.  de  Mon.  I  know  thou  hast  been  my  architect  of  power  • 

And  when  the  pile  is  built, — 
Lau.  (with  a  smile).  Could  still  o'erthrow  it 

It  thou  couldst  play  the  ingrate  ! 
Mme.  de  Mon.  I  i nay  j 

Lau-    _,    .  '  Hear  ms ! 

Lach  must  have  need  of  each.     Long  live  the  kin*  ! 
Slill  let  his  temples  ache  beneath  the  crown. 
But  all  that  kings  can  give— wealth,  rank,  arid  power- 
Must  be  for  us— the  king's  friend  and  his  favorite 

Mme.  de  Mon.  But  is  it  easy  to  supplant  the  duchess  ] 
All  love  La  Valliere  !  Her  meek  nature  shrinks 
E'en  from  our  homage  ;  and  she  wears  her  state 
As  if  she  pray'd  the  world  to  pardon  greatness. 

Lac.     And  thus  destroys  herself  I     At  court,  Athene, 
Vice,  to  win  followers,  takes  the  front  of  virtue,' 
And  looks  the  dull  plebeian  things  called  moral 
To  scorn,  until  they  blush  to  be  unlike  her. 
Why  is  Da  Lauzun  not  her  friend  1     Why  plotting 
For  a  new  rival  1     Why  ?— Becanse  I)?  Lauzun 
Wins  not  the  power  he  look'd  for  from  her  friendship  ! 
She  keeps  not  old  friends— and  she  makes  no  new  ones  ' 
For  who  would  be  a  friend  to  one  who  deems  it 
A  crime  to  ask  his  Majesty  a  favor  1 
14  Friends  "  is  a  phrase  at  court  that  means  promotion  ' 

Mme.  de  Mon.  Her  folly,  I  confess,  would  not  be  mine. 

But  grant  her  faults— the  king  still  loves  the  duchess  ! 


37 


;5S  THE    DUCHESS    DE   LA    VALLIKKI.  [ACT  LH. 

Lap.     Since  none  are  by,  I'll  venture  on  a  treason, 

And  say,  tlie  kind's  a  man— and  men  will  change  ! 
I  have  his  ear,  and  you  shall  win  his  eye. 
'Gainst  a  new  lace,  and  an  experienced  courtier. 
What  chance  hath  this  poor,  loving,  simple  woman  I 
Besides,  she  has  too  much  conscience  tor  a  king  ' 
He  likes  not  to  look  up,  and  feel  how  low, 
E'en  on  the  throne  thai  overlooks  the  world, 
His  royal  greatness  dwarf-'  beside  that  heart 
That  never  stoop'd  to  sin,  save  when  it  loved  him  ! 

Mmk.  de  Mon.  You're  eloquent,  my  lord  ! 

);A1,  Ali  !  of  such  natures 

You  and  I  know  hut  little  !   [atide)  This  must  cease, 
Or  [  shall  all  disclose  my  real  aim-,  ! 
(aloud)  The  king  is  with  the  duchess  I 

VlMK.   DE  MON.  Ye8. 

La...  As  yet 

She  doth  suspect  you  not  ! 
Mmk.  de  Mon.  Suspect  !— the  puppet  ! 

No  ;  but  full  oft,  her  head  upon  my  bosom, 

Calls  me  her  truest  friend— invites  me  ever 

To  amuse  the  king  with  my  enlivening  sallies — 

And  still  breaks  off,  in  sighing  o'er  the  past, 

To  wish  her  spirit  were  as  blithe  as  mine, 

Ami  fears  her  Louis  wearies  of  her  sadness. 
Lad-.     So,  the  plot  ripens — ere  the  king  came  hither, 

I  had  prepared  his  royal  pride  to  chafe 

At  that  sad  face,  whose  honest  sorrow  wears 

Reproach  unconsciously  !     You'll  hear  the  issue  ! 

Now  then,  farewell  ! — We  understand  each  other  ! 

[Exit  Lauzitn,  b.  1  b. 
Mmk.  de  Mon.  And  onco  I  loved  this  man — and  still  might  love  him, 

But  that  I  love  ambition  !     Yes,  my  steps 

Now  need  a  guide  ;  but  once  upon  the  height, 

And  I  will  have  no  partner  !     Thou,  lord  duke, 

With  all  thine  insolent  air  of  proud  protection, 

Thon  shalt  wait  trembling  on  my  nod,  and  bind 

Thy  fortune  to  my  wheels  !     0  man  ! — vain  man  ! 

Well  sung  the  poet — when  this  power  of  beauty 

Heaven  gave  our  sex,  it  gave  the  only  sceptre 

Which  makes  the  world  a  slave  !     And  I  will  wield  it  '  — 

[Exit  Madame  de  Montesp.vn,  l   1  e. 

SCENE  IX. — The  Scene  opens  and  discovers  the  King ,  and  the  Duch^s  di? 
la  Valliere  at  chess. 

Louis  (r.).  But  one  move  more  ! 

Ditch,  de  la  V.  (l.).  Not  so  !     I  check  the  king. 

Lruns-  A  vain  attempt — the  king  is  too  well  guarded  ! 

There,  check  again  !     Your  game  is  lo>t  ! 
Dorm,  dh  la  V.  As  usual, 

E'en  from  this  mimic  stage  of  war  you  rise 

Ever  the  victor,  (they  leave  the  table  and  advance.) 
Louis  'Twere  a  fairer  fortuoe, 

My  own  Louise,  to  reconcile  the  vanqutsh'd  ! 
DtroH.  de  la  V.  (sadly).  My  best  loved  Louis  ! 
Louis  (a).  Why  so  sad  a  tone? 


ACT  HI.]  TH3  Dt/CHESS   DE   LA   VALLIKKE.  39 

Nay,  smile,  Louise  ! — Love  tljiuks  himself  aggrieved 

If  Care  casts  shadows  o'er  the  heart  it  seeks 

To  fill  with  cloudless  sunshine!    Smile,  Louise  ! 

E'en  unkind  words  were  kinder  than  sad  looks. 

There — now  thou  gladd'st  me  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  (l.  c).  Yet,  e'en  thou,  methought, 

Didst  wear,  this  morn,  a  brow  on  which  the  light 

Shone  less  serenely  than  its  wont  ! 
Louis.  This  morn  ! 

Ay,  it  is  true! — this  morn  I  heard  that  France 

Hath  lost  a  subject  monarchs  well  might  mourn  ! 

Oh !  little  know  the  world  how  much  a  king, 

Whose  life  is  past  in  purchasing  devotion, 

Loses  in  one  who  merited  all  favor 

And  scorned  to  ask  the  least  !     A  king,  Louise, 

Sees  but  the  lackeys  of  mankind.     The  true 

Lords  of  our  race — the  high  chivalric  hearts — 

Nature's  nobility — alas,  are  proud, 

And  stand  aloof,  lest  slaves  should  say  they  natter  ! 

Of  such  a  mould  was  he  whom  France  deplores. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Tell  me  his  name,  that  I,  with  thee,  may  mourn  him. 
Louis.  A  noble  name,  but  a  more  noble  bearer  ; 

Not  to  be  made  by,  but  to  make,  a  lineage. 

Once,  too,  at  Dunkirk,  'twix  me  and  the  foe, 

He  thrust  his  gallant  breast,  already  seamed 

With  warrior  wounds,  and  his  blood  flow'd  for  mine. 

Dead — Ins  just  merits  all  unrecompensed  ! 

Obscured,  like  sun-light,  by  the  suppliant  clouds  ! 

He  should  have  died  a  marshal  !     Death  did  wrong 

To  strike  so  soon  !     Alas,  brave  Bragelone  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  (starting).  Ha  ! — did  I  hear  aright,  my  liege — my  Louis. 

That  name — that  name  ! — thou  saidst  not  "  Bragelone  V" 
Lobis.  Such  was  his  name,  not  often  heard  at  court. 

Thou  didst  not,  know  him  1     What  !  thou  art  pale  !  thou  weep'st. 

Thou  art  ill  !  Louise,  look  up  !  (supporting  her.) 
Duch.  le  la  V.  (aside).  Be  still,  0  Conscience  ! 

I  did  not  slay  him  !   (aloud)  Died  too  soon  !     Alas  ! 

He  should  have  died  with  all  his  hopes  uublighted, 

Ere  I  was — what  I  am  ! 
Louis.  What  mean  these  words  7 

Duch.  de  la  V.  How  did  death  strike  him  ?     What  disease  1 
Louis.  1  know  not. 

He  had  retired  from  service  ;  and  in  peace 

Breathed  out  his  soul  to  some  remoter  sky  ! 

France  only  guards  his  fame  !     What  was  he  to  thee 

That  thou  shouldst  weep  for  him  ? 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Hast  thou  ne'er  heard 

We  were  betrothed  in  youth  ? 
Louis  (agitated  and  aside).  Lauzun  speaks  truth  ! 

I'd  not  her  virgin  heart — she  loved  another  ! 

yaloud)  Betrothed  !     You  mourn  him  deeply  ! 
Duch.  pe  la  V.  Sire,  I  do 

That  broken  heart — I  was  its  dream — its  idol ' 

And  with  regret  is  mingled — what  repentance  1 
Louis  (coldly).  Repentance,  madam  1     Well,  the  word  is  gracious  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Pardon  !  oh,  pardon  !     But  the  blow  was  suddeL  ; 

How  can  the  heart   play  courtier  with  remorse  1 


40  THE  DUCHESS  DE   LA  VALUKIJE.  [act  in. 

Louis.  Remorse!  — again.     Wliy  be  at  once  all  honest, 

And  say  you  love  me  not  ! 
Ducii.  dk  LA  V.  Not  love  you   Louis  ? 

Louis.  No;,  it'  you  feel  repentance  to  liave  loved  ! 
Ducu   de  la  V.  What  !  think'st  tliou,  Louis,  I  should  love  tbee  more 

Did  I  love  virtue  less,  or  less  regret  it  ? 
Louis.   I  pray  you  truce  with  these  heroic  speeches ; 

They  please  us  in  romance — in  life  they  weary. 
Ducii.  de  la  V.  Louis,  do  I  deserve  this  1 
Louis.  Rather,  lady, 

Do  /deserve  the  mute  reproach  of  sorrow  ] 

Still  less  these  constant,  and  never-soothed  complaints, 

This  waiting-woman  jargon  of  "  lost  virtue." 
Ducii.  dk  la  V.  Sire,  this  from  you  ! 
Louis  Why,  oft,  could  others  hear  thee, 

Well  might  they  deem  thee  some  poor  village  Phoebe, 

Whom  her  false  Lubin  hud  deceived,  &nd  left, 

Itobb'd  of  her  only  dower  !  and  not  the  great 

Duchess  La  Valliere,  in  our  realm  of  Frauce, 

Second  to  none  but  our  anointed  race  ; 

The  envy  of  the  beauty  and  the  birth 

Of  Europe's  court — our  city  of  the  world  ! 

Is  it  so  great  disgrace,  Louise  La  Valliere, 

To  wear,  unrivall'd,  in  thy  breast,  the  heart 

Of  Bourbon's  latest,  nor  ber  least  of  kings  1 
Duoh.  de  la  V.  Sire,  when  you  deigned  to  love  me,  I  had  hoped 

You  knew  the  sunshine  of  your  royal  favor 

Had  fallen  on  a  lowly  (lower.     Let  others 

Deem  that  the  splendor  consecrates  the  sin  ! 

I'd  love  thee  with  as  pure  and  proud  a  love, 

Jf  thou  hadst  beeu  the  poorest  cavalier 

That  ever  served  a  king.     Thou  Unow'st  it,  Louis  ! 
Louis.  I  would  not  have  it  so!  my  fame  my  "lory, 

The  purple  and  the  orb,  are  part  of  me  ; 

And  thou  shouldst  love  them  for  my  sake,  and  feel 

I  were  not  Louis  were  I  less  the  kin™. 

Still  weeping  !     Fie  !     I  tell  thee  tears  freeze  back 

The  very  love  I  still  would  bear  thee  ! 
Ducii.  de  la  V.  "  Would  still  /"—didst  thou  say  "  still  ?" 
Louis.  Come,  lady  ! 

Woman,  to  keep  her  empire  o'er  the  heart, 

Must  learn  its  nature — mould  into  its  bias — 

And  rule  by  never  differing  from  our  humors. 
Duch.  dk  la  V.  I'll  school  my  features,  teach  my  lips  to  smile, 

Be  all  thou  wilt  ;   bat  say  not  "still,"  dear  Louis  ! 
Louis.   Well,  well !  no  furlli  jr  words  ;  let  peace  be  with  us.  {crosses  to  L.) 

(uside)  By  Heaven,  she  weeps  with  yet  intenser  passion  ! 

It  must  be  that  she  loved  this  Bragelone, 

And  mourns  the  loftier  fate  that  made  her  mine  ! 

(aloud)  This  gallant  soldier,  madam,  your  betrothed, 

Hath  some  share  in  your  tears  1 
Duch.  de  da  V,  (it.  c).  Oh.  name  him  not  ; 

My  tears  are  all  unworthy  dews  to  fa'l 

Upon  a  tomb  so  honored  ! 
Louis.  Grant  m3  patience  ! 

These  scenes  are  very  tedious,  fair  La  Valliere. 
In  truth,  we  kings  have,  in  the  council-c'.ianiber, 


ACT  HE.]         THE  DUCHESS  DE  LA  VAELIEKE.  41 

Enough  to  make  us  tearful — in  the  bower 

We  would  have  livelier  subjects  to  divert  us. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Again  forgive  me  !  I  am  sick  at  heart  ; 

I  pray  your  pardon  ; — these  sad  news  have  marr'd 

The  music  of  your  presence,  and  have  made  me 

Fit  but  for  solitude.     I  pray  you,  Sire, 

Let  me  retire  ;  aud  when  again  I  greet  you, 

I'll  wear  the  mien  you'd  have  me ! 
Louis.  Be  it  so  ! 

Let  me  no  more  disturb  you  from  your  thoughts  ; 

They  must  be  sad.     So  brave — and  your  betrothed  ! 

Your  grief  becomes  you  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  You  forgive  me,  Louis  1 

We  do  not  part  unkindly  ? 
Louis.  Fair  one,  no  ! 

[Exit  La  Valliere,  l.  d. 

She  was  my  first  love,  and  my  fondest.     Was  ! 

Alas,  the  word  must  come  — I  love  her  yet, 

But  love  wanes  glimmering  to  that  twilight — friendship  ! 

Grant  that  she  never  loved  this  Bragelone  ; 

Still,  tears  and  sighs  make  up  dull  interludes 

In  passion's  short-lived  drama!     She  is  good, 

Gentle,  and  meek — and  I  do  think  she  loves  me, 

(A  truth  no  king  is  sure  of!) — But,  in  fine, 

1  have  begun  to  feel  the  hours  are  long 

Pass'd  in  her  presence  !     What  I  hotly  sought, 

Coldly  I  weary  of.     I'll  seek  De  Lauzun  ; 

1  like  his  wit — I  almost  like  his  knavery  ; 

It  never  makes  us  yawn,  like  high-flown  virtues. 

Thirst,  hunger,  rest — these  are  the  wants  of  peasants  ; 

A  courtier's  wants  are  titles,  place,  and  gold  ; 

But  a  poor  king,  who  has  these  wants  so  sated, 

Has  only  one  want  left — to  be  amused  !  [Exit  Louis,  r   d. 

Re-enter  the  Duchess  de  la  Vallieke. 

Duch.  drlaV.  Louis  !  dear  Louis  !     Gone  !  alas  !  and  left  me 
Half  in  displeasure — 1  was  wrong,  methinks, 
To — no  ! — I  was  not  wrong  to  feel  remorse, 
But  wrong  to  give  it  utterance  ! 

Enter  Madame  de  Montespan,  c.  l. 

Mme.  de  Mon.  (looking  round,  then  advancing).  What  !  alone, 

Fair  friend  1     I  thought  the  king 

Duch    de  la  V.  Has  gone,  in  anger  ; 

Cold,  and  in  auger. 
Mme.  de  Mon.  What,  with  thee,  dear  lady  ? 

On  the  smooth  surface  of  that  angel  meekness 

I  should  have  thought  no  angry  breath  could  linger. 

But  men  and  kings  are 

Duch.  de  la  V.  Hush  !     I  was  to  blame. 

The  king's  all  goodness.     Shall  I  write  to  him  ? 

Letters  have  not  our  looks — and,  oh,  one  look  ! 

How  many  hardest  hearts  one  look  hath  won, 

A  life  consumed  in  words  had  woo'd  in  vain  ! 


42  THE  DUCHESS   DE   LA  VALLIEBE.  [ACT  LEL 

Mme.  de  Mon.  To-night  there  is  high  revel  at  the  court  , 

There  you  may  meet  your  truant  king. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  To-night  ! 

An  age  !     How  many  hours  to-night  1 
Mme.  de  Mon.  You  know 

My  office  makes  my  home  the  royal  palace  ; 

I  serve  the  queen,  and  thus  shall  see  your  Louis 

Ere  the  sun  set. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  You  ! — happy  you  ! 

Mme.  de  Mon.  Perchance 

(The  king  is  ever  gracious  to  your  friends, 

And  knows  me  of  the  nearest),  I  might  whisper, 

Though  with  less  sweet  a  tone,  your  message  to  him, 

And  he  your  dove,  and  hear  you  hack  the  olive  I 
Ducn.  de  la  V.  My  kind  Athene  ! 
Mme.  de  Mom.  Nay,  'tis  yours  the  kindness, 

To  wear  my  love  so  near  your  heart.     But,  tell  me, 

Since  you  accept  my  heraldy,  the  cause 

Of  strife  between  you  in  this  court  of  love. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Alas  !  1  know  not,  save  that  I  offended  I 

The  wherefore  hoots  the  heart  that  loves  to  know  ? 
Mme.  de  Mon.  Not  much,  I  own,  the  poor  defendant — woman, 

But  much  the  advocate  ;  1  need  the  brief. 
Ducn.  de  la  V.  Methinks  his  kingly  nature  chafes  to  see 

It  cannot  rule  the  conscience  as  the  heart  ; 

But  tell  him,  ever  henceforth  I  will  keep 

Sad  thoughts  for  lonely  hours — Athene,  tell  him, 

That  if  he  smile  once  more  upon  Louise, 

The  smile  shall  never  pass  from  that  it  shines  on  ; 

S.iy — but  I'll  write  myself,  (sits  down  to  table  and  writes.) 
Mme.  de  Mon.  (aside).  What  need  of  schemes — 

Lauzun's  keen  wit — Athene's  plotting  spirit  ? 

She  weaves  herself  the  web  that  shall  ensnare  her  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  (rises,  advances  and  gives  letter).  There;  back  these  feeble 
words  with  all  thy  beauty. 

Thy  conquering  eyes,  and  thy  bewitching  smile. 

Sure  never  suit   can  fail  with  such  a  pleader  ! 

And  now  a  little  while  to  holier  sadness, 

And  thine  accusing  memory,  Bragelone  ! 
Mme.  de  Mon.  Whom  speak  you  of? — the  hero  of  the  Fronde  1 

Who  seem'd  the  last  of  the  old  Norman  race, 

And  half  preserved  to  this  degenerated  age 

The  lordly  shape  the  ancient  Bayards  wore  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.   You  praise  him  well  !     He  was  my  father's  friend, 

And  should  have  been  his  son.     We  were  affianced, 

And — but  no  more  !     Ah  !  cruel,  cruel  Louis  ! 

You  mourn'd  for  him — how  much  more  cause  have  I ! 
Mme   de  Mon.    {quickly).    What  !     he   is   dead  ]    your    grief  the    king 
resented  ? 

Knew  he  your  troth  had  thus  been  plighted  ? 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Yes  ; 

And  still  he  seem'd  to  deem  it  sin  to  mourn  him  ! 
Mme.  de  Mon.  (aside).  A  clue — another  clue — that  I  will  follow, 

Until  it  lead  me  to  the  throne  I  (aloud)  Well,  cheer  thee  ; 

Trust  your  true  friend  ;  rely  on  my  persuasion. 

Methinks  I  never  task'd  its  powers  till  now. 

Farewell,  and  fear  not  !     Oil  !  I'll  plead  your  cause, 


ACT  HI.]  THE  DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIERE.  43 

As  if  myself  the  client,  [aside)  Thou  art  sentenced  i 

[Exit  Madame  ds  Montespan,  e.  d. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  'Tis  a  sweet  solace  still  to  have  a  friend — 
A  friend  in  woman  !    Oh,  to  what  a  reed 
We  bind  our  destinies,  when  man  we  love  ! 
Peace,  honor,  conscience  lost — if  I  lose  him, 
What  have  1  left  1     How  sinks  my  heart  within  me  ! 
I'll  to  my  chamber  ;  there  the  day  of  tears 
Lends  night  its  smile  !     And  Fm  the  thing  they  envy  ! 

[Exit  Duchess  de  la  Yalliere,  l.  d. 

SCENE  III.— The  gardens  of  Versailles. 

Lauzun,  Grammont,  and  Couutiers  enter,  l,1e. 

Lad.     'Tis  now  the  hour  in  which  our  royal   naster 

Honors  the  ground  of  his  rejoicing  gardens 

By  his  illustrious  footsteps — there,  rny  lords, 

That  is  the  true  style-courtier  ! 
Gram.  Out  upon  you  ! 

Your  phrase  would  suit  some  little  German  prince, 

Of  fifteen  hundred  quarterings  and  five  acres, 

And  not  the  world's  great  Louis  !     'Tis  the  hour 

When  Phoebus  shrinks  abash'd,  and  all  the  stars 

Envy  the  day  that  it  beholds  the  king  ! 

Enter Louis,  r.  1  e. 

Louis.  My  lords, 

Pray  you  be  cover'd.     Hark  ye,  dear  De  Lauzun. 

[Exeunt  the  Courtiers,  r.  2  e.,  as  the  King  takes  Lauzun  aside. 

The  fair  De  Montespan  1 
Lau.  Is  worth  the  loving  ; 

And,  by  mine  honor,  while  we  speak  she  comes ! 

A  happy  fortune.     Sire,  may  1  withdraw  1  [Exit,  r.  2  e. 

Enter  Madame  de  Montespan,  r.  1  e.     Salutes  the  King  and  passes  on. 

Louis.  Fair  madam,  we  had  hoped  you  with  you  brought 

Some  b'ight  excuse  to  grace  our  cheerless  presence 

With  a  less  short-lived  light  !     You  dawn  upon  us 

Only  to  make  us  more  regret  your  setting. 
Mmk.  de  Mon.  Sire,  if  I  dared,  I  would  most  gladly  hail 

A  few  short  moments  to  arrest  your  presence, 

And  rid  me  of  a  soft,  yet  painful  duty. 
Louis.  'Tis  the  first  time,  be  sure,  so  sweet  a  voice 

E'er  craved  a  sauction  for  delighting  silence. 

Speak  on,  we  pray  thee  ! 
Mme.  de  Mon.  Gracious  Sire,  the  duchess, 

Whom  you  have  lately  left,  she  fears,  in  anger, 

Besought  me  to  present  this  letter  to  you. 
Louis  (takes  the  letter,  and  aside).  She  blushes  while  she   speaks  !     'Tis 
passing  strange, 

I  ne'er  remark'd  those  darkly-dreaming  eyes, 

That  melt  in  their  own  light  !   (reads,  and  earelessly  puts  up  the  let- 
ter) It  scarcely  suits 
Her  dignity,  and  ours,  to  choose  a  witness 


4A  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VAT.T.TKBE.  [ACT  HL 

To  what  hath  chanced  between  us.     She  is  good, 

But  her  youth,  spent  in  some  old  country  castle, 

Knows  not  the  delicate  spirit  of  a  court. 
Mmk.  de  Mox.   She  bade  me  back  her  suit.     Alas  !  my  liege, 

Who  can  succeed,  if  fair  La  Valliere  fail  1 
Louis.  She  bade  thee  ! — she  was  prudent!    Were  I  woman, 

And  loved,  I'd  not  have  chosen  such  a  herald. 
Mhb.  de  M'>n.   Love  varies  in  its  colors  with  all  tempers  ; 

The  duchess  is  too  proud  to  fear  a  rival, 

Too  beautiful  to  find  one.     May  I  take 

Some  word  of  comfort  back  to  cheer  her  sadness, 

Made  doubly  deep  by  thoughts  of  your  displeasure, 

And  grief  for  a  dear  friend  7 
Louis.  Ay,  that's  the  sadness  ! 

Mme.  de  Mon.  He  was  a  gallant  lord,  this  Bra»elone, 

And  her  betrothed.     Perchance  in  youth  she  loved  him, 

Ere  the  great  sun  had  quenched  the  morning  star  ! 
Lodis.  She  loved  him — think'st  thou  so  7 
Mme.  de  Mon.    {dissimulating).  Indeed  I  know  not  ; 

But  I  have  heard  her  eloquent  in  praise. 

And  seen  her  lost  in  woe.     You  will  forgive  her? 
Louis    Forgive  her — there's  no  cause  ! 
Mmk.  de  Mon.  Now,  bless  you,  Sire, 

For  that  one  word.     My  task  is  done. 
Louis.  Already  1 

Mmk.  de  Mon.  What  can  I  more  ?     Oh,  let  me  hasten  back  ! 

What  rapture  must  be  hers  who  can  but  (ill 

An  atom  of  the  heart  of  godlike  Louis  ! 

How  much  more  the  whole  soul  ! — To  lose  thy  love 

Must  be,  not  grief,  but  some  sublime  despair, 

Like  that  the  Roman  felt  who  lost  a  world  ! 
Louis  [aside).  By  Heaven,  she  fires  me  ! — a  brave,  royal  spirit, 

Worthy  to  love  a  king  ! 
Mme.  de  Mon.  To  know  thee  hers, 

What  pride — what  slory  !     Though  all  earth  cried  "  Shame  !" 

Earth  could  not  still  the  trumpet  at  her  heart, 

That,  with  its  swelling  and  exultant  voice, 

Told  her  the  earth  was  but  the  slave  of  Louis, 

And  she  the  partner  !     And  0,  hour  of  dread  ! 

When  (for  the  hour  must  come),  some  fairer  form 

Shall  win  thee  from  her — still,  methinks,  'twould  be 

A  boast  to  far  posterity  to  point 

To  all  the  trophies  piled  about  thy  throne, 

And  say — ,;  He  loved  me  once  !" — 0,  sire,  your  pardon  ; 

I  am  too  bold. 
Louis,  {aside).  Why,  this  were  love,  indeed, 

Could  we  but  hope  to  win  it.     And  such  love 

Would  weave  the  laurel  in  its  wreaths  of  myrtle. 

{aloud)  Beautiful  lady!  while  thou  speak'st  I  dream 

What  love  should  be — and  feel  where  love  is  not  ! 

Thou  com'st  the  suitor,  to  remain  the  judge  ; 

And  I  could  kneel  to  thee  for  hope  and  mercy. 
Mme.  de  Mon.   Ah,  no — ah,  no — she  is  my  friend.     And  if 

She  loves  not  as  I  love — I  mean,  I  might  love — 

Still  she  believes  she  loves  thee.     Tempt  me  not. 

Who  could  resist  thee  !     Sire,  farewell  ! 

[Exit  Madame  de  Moxtespan,  r.  1  e. 


ACT  III.]  THE   DUCHESS   DE  LA  VALLIERE.  45 

Lonis.  Her  voice 

Is  hush'd  ;  but  still  its  queen-like  music  lingers 
In  my  rapt  ears.     I  dreamt  Louise  had  loved  me  ; 
She  who  felt  love  disgrace  !     Before  the  true, 
How  the  tame  counterfeit  grows  pale  ami  lifeless. 
By  the  sad  brow  of  yon  devout  La  Valliere 
I  feel  a  man,  and  fear  myself  a  culprit  ! 
But  this  high  spirit  wakes  in  mine  the  sense 
Of  what  it  is — I  am  that  Louis  whom 
The  world  has  called  "  The  Great!"— and  in  her  pride 
Mirror  mine  own.     This  jaded  life  assumes 
The  zest,  the  youth,  the  glory  of  excitement  ! 
To-night  we  meet  again — speed  fast,  dull  hours  ! 

[Exit  Louts,  k.  1  e. 

SCENE  IV.— Grand  saloon  in  the  Palace  of  Versailles — in  the  background  the 

suite  of  apartments  is  seen  in  perspective — the  Queen,  Duchess  de  la 
Valliere,  and  Madame  de  Montespan  are  discovered  together  with 
Courtiers,  Ladies,  etc. 

First  Cour.  {approaching  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere,  as  she  is  advanc- 
ing). Madam,  your  goodness  is  to  Fiance  a  proverb  ! 

If  I  might  dare  request,  this  slight  memorial 

You  would  convey  to  our  most  gracious  master  ? 

The  rank  of  colonel  in  the  royal  guard 

Is  just  now  vacant.     True,  I  have  not  served  ; 

But  1  do  trust  my  valor  is  well-known  ; 

I've  killed  three  noted  swordsmen  in  a  duel — 

And  for  the  rest,  a  word  from  you  were  more 

Than  all  the  laurels  Holland  gave  to  others. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  My  lord,  forgive  me!     I  might  ill-deserve 

The  friendship  of  a  monarch,  if,  forgetting 

That  honors  are  the  attributes  of  merit  ; 

And  they  who  sell  the  service  of  the  public 

For  the  false  coin,  soft  smiles  and  honey'd  words 

Forged  in  the  antechambers  of  a  palace, 

Defraud  a  people  to  degrade  a  king  ! 

If  you  have  merits,  let  them  plead  for  you  ; 

Nor  ask  in  whispers  what  you  claim  for  justice,  {retires  toward*  l.) 
Mme.  de  Mon.  {advancing    r  ,  to  Couutier,  as  the  Duchess  de  la.  Val- 
liere turns  away).  Give  me  the  paper.     Hush!  the  king 
shall  see  it!  (takes  the  paper,  places  it  in  her  bosom  and  retires 
towards  R.     Music.) 

Enter  the  King,  c,  with  Grammont,  Lauzun,  and  other  Courtiers.     He 
pauses  by  the  Queen,  and  accosts  her  respectfully  in  dumb  show. 

Gram,  (l.,  aside).  With  what  a  stately  and  sublime  decorum 

His  majesty  throws  grandeur  o'er  his  foibles ; 

He  not  disguises  vice  ;  but  makes  vice  kingly — 

Most  gorgeous  of  all  sensualists ! 
Lau.     {aside).  How  different 

His  roval  rival  in  the  chase  of  pleasure, 

The  spendthrift,  sauntering  Second  Charles  of  England  ! 
Gram,  {aside).  Aye,  Jove  to  Comus  ! 
Lau.    {aside).  Silence  !  Jove  approaches  ! 


46  THE  DTJCHE8S   DB   LA    VATiTiTKBK.  [aci 

The  crowd  breaks  up  into  grottpt  ;  tin    Kim;  panes  slowly  from  each  till  l.c 
joins  the  Duchess  DB  LA  Vau.h  SB  ;    the  CouaTIBRS  retire. 

Louis.  Why,  this  is  well.     I  thank  you. 

Duch.  de  la  V.  Aud  forgive  me  1 

L  (Tis    Forgive  yon  !     7ou  mistaki ;  wounded  feeling 

Is  not  displeasure.     Let  this  pass,  Louise. 
Viinr  lovely  friend  bas  a  most  heavenly  smile  ! 
l-i<  :i.  de  i  a  V.  Ami  a  warm  heart.     In  truth,  my  liege,  I'm  glad 

Von  see  her  with  my  eyes. 
Louis.  Yi>u  have  no  friend 

Whose  face  it  glads  me  more  to  look  upon,  {aside,  and  gating  on 

Mad  AH  K  I>K  Montkbp  iH 
What  thrilling  eyes  !   {aloud     My  thanks  are  due  to  her 
For,  with  the  oil  of  her  mellifluous  voice, 

Smoothing  the  waves  the  passing  breeze  had  ruflled.  {erauet  to  k  , 
joint   Madam  a  dr    Mohtkbpah,  and  leads  her  throt 
crowd  1 1  the  back  of  the  stage,  where  they  enter  into  eonvt   • 
idiiI  afterwards  the  tlwwt  him  the  paper.) 
Lau.     (advances   to  the    DoCHESS).    ^ 'our    grace    resolves  no  more    to  be 
content 
Eclipsing  others.     Vou  eclipse  yourself. 
Duch.   de  la  V.  1  though)  you  were  a  friend,  and  not  a  flatterer. 
Lau.     Friendship  would  lose  its  dearest  privilege 
If  friendship  were  forbidden  to  admire  ! 
Why,  e'en  the  king  admires  your  grace's  friend — 
Told  me  to-day  she  was  the  lovelies!  lady 

The  court  could  boast.     Nay,  see  how,  while  they  speak, 

Be  gazes  on  her.     How  his  breathing  fans 

The  locks  that  shade  the  roses  of  her  cheek  ! 
Duch.  de   la  V.  Ha  !  (aside)  Nay,  be  still,  my  heai'l 
Lau.  It  is  but  friendship  ; 

But  it  looks  wondrous  warm  ! 
Duch.    nr.  la  V.  (aside).  He  cannot  mean  it  ! 

And  yet — and  yet — he  lingers  on  her  hand — 

He  whispers  ! 
Lau.  How  the  gossips  gaze  and  smile  ! 

There'll  be  much  scandal. 
Duch.  dk  la  V.  Luizun — what — thou  thinkst  not — 

No,  no,  thou  canst  not  think 

Lau.  That  courts  know  treachery, 

That  women  are  ambitious  or  iii>mi  false  ; 

I  will  not  think  it.     Pshaw  ! 
Duch    de  la  V.  (aside).  My  brain  swims  round  ! 

Louis,  of  late,  hath  been  so  changed.     How  fair 

She  looks  to-night — and  oh,  she  has  not  fallen  ! 

(aloud)  He  comes — he  nears  us — he  has  left  her.     Fie  ! 

My  foolish  fancies  wronged  him  ! 
Lau.     (aside).  The  spell  works. 

Mme.  de  Mon.   (as   the   King  quits  her,  to  First   Courtier,  fffv'ng  lim 

back  the  paper).  My  lord,  your  suit  is  granted. 
First  Cour    Blessings,  madame  !  (the  other  Courtiers  come  round  Vim.) 
Second  Cour.  Her  influence  must  be  great.     I  know  three  dukes 

Most  pressing  for  the  post. 
Thiiid  Cour.  A  rising  sun, 

Worthier  of  worship  than  that  cold  La  Yalliere. 

The  king  as  well,  methinks,  might  have  n»  mistress, 


ACT  in.]  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIERE.  '17 

As  one  by  whom   no  courtier  grew  the  richer,  (the  Coukturs 
group  round  Madamb  De  Montespax  ) 
Louis  {advancing).   My  lords,  you  do  remember  the  bright  lists 

Which,  in  the  place  termed  thenceforth  "  The  Carrousel,"* 

We  sometime  held  1 — a  knightly  tournament, 

That  brought  us  back  to  the  age  of  the  First  Francis  ! 
Lau.     Of  all  your  glorious  festivals,  the  greatest  ! 

Who  but  remembers  1 
Duch.  de  la  V.  (aside).  Then  he  wore  my  colors. 

How  kind  to  bring  back  to  my  yearning  heart 

That  golden  spring-time  of  our  early  loves  ? 
Lor/is.  Next  week  we  will  revive  the  heroic  pageant. 

Proud  plumes  shall  wave,  and  levell'd  spears  be  shiver'd  ; 

Ourself  will  take  the  lists,  and  do  defy 

The  chivalry  of  our  renowned  France, 

In  honor  of  that  lady  of  our  court 

For  whom  we  wear  the  colors,  and  the  motto 

Which  suits  her  best — "  Most  bright  where  all  are  brilliant !" 
Gram.  Oh,  a  most  kingly  notion  ! 
Louis.  Ere  we  part, 

Let  each  knight  choose  his  colors  and  his  lady. 

Ourself  have   set  the  example,    (the  Courtiers  mingle  ivith  the 
Ladies,  e'c.,  many  Ladies  give  their  colors.) 
Ditch,  de  la  V.  (timidly).  Oh,  my  Louis  ! 

I  read  thy  heart  ;  thou  hast  chosen  this  device 

To  learn  thy  poor  La  Valliere  to  be  proud. 

Nay,  turn  not  from  my  blessings.     Once  before 

You  wore  my  colors,  though  I  gave  them  not. 

To-night  I   give  them ! — Louis  loves  me  still !  (takes  one  of  the 
knots  from  her  breast,  and  presents  it.) 
Louis.  Lady,  the  noblest  hearts  in  France  would  beat 

More  high  beneath  your  badge.     Alas  !  my  service 

Is  vow'd   already  here,  (turning  to  Madame  de  Montesfan,  and 
placing  a  knot  of  her  colors  over  his  order  of  iSnint  Esprit. ) 
Ditch  de  la  V.  How!      How!  (the  King  converses  apart  with  Madame 

de  Moktespan.) 
Lau.     (aside,  to  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere).  Be  calm,  your  grace;  a 
thousand  eyes 

Are  on  you.     Give  the  envious  crowd  no  triumph. 

Ah  I  had  my  fortune  won  so  soft,  a  heart 

I  would  have 

Duch.  le  la  V.  (aside,  to  Lauzun).  Peace! — away1  Betray'd!  Un- 
done !  (sinks  almost  exhausted,  but  Lauzun  catches  and  sup- 
ports her.) 

*  The  Place,  du  Carrousel  was  so  named  from  a  splendid  festival  given  by  Louis. 
Oa  the  second  day,  devoted  to  knightly  games,  the  king,  who  appeared  in  the  char- 
acter of  Roger,  carried  off  four  prizes.  All  the  crown  jewels  were  prodigalized  on 
his  arms  and  the  trappings  of  his  horse. 


48  THE   DUCHESS    DE    L.V    VA.LLIKHE.  [ACT  IV. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE   I.—  The  gardens  at    Versailles. 

Enter  Lapzpn,  n.  1  b. 

Lap.    So  far,  so  prosperous.     From  the  breast  of  Louis, 
The  blooming  love  it  bore  so  long  a  summer 
Falls  like  a  fruit  o'er-ripe  ;  and,  in  the  court, 
And  o'er  tin'  king,  this  glittering    Montespan 
Queens  it  without  a  rivai — awes  all  foes, 
Ami  therefore  makes  all  frioods.     State,  office,  honors, 
Reflect  her  smile,  or  fade  before  her  fro  WD. 
So  far,  s<>  well!     Enough  for  Bfontespan. 
Poor  Lmzrm  now — I  love  this  lair  La  Valliore, 
As  well,  at  least,  as  woman's  worth  the  loving  ; 
And  if  the  jewel  has  one  trifling  flaw, 
The  gold  'tis  set  in  will  redeem  the  blemish. 
The  king's  no  niggard  lover  ;  and  her  wealth 
Is  vast.     I  have  the  total  in  my  tablets — 
(Besides  estates  in  Picardy  an  1  Provence.) 
I'm  very  poor — my  creditor!  very  pressing. 
I've  robb'd  the  duchess  of  a  faithless  lover, 
To  give  myself  a  wife,  and  her  a  husband. 
Wedlock's  a  holy  thing — and  wealth  a  good  one  ! 

Enter  Lopis,  L.  1  E.,  and  crosses  toward*  ir.,  whilit  tpeakiny, 

Lopis.  The  day  is  long — I  have  not  seen  Athene. 

Pleasure  is  never  stagnant  in  her  presence  ; 

But  every  breeze  of  woman's  changeful  skies 

Ripples  the  stream,  ami  freshens  e'en  the  sunshine. 
Lap.     (l.  oX  'Tis  said,  your  Majesty,  "that  contrast's  sweet," 

And  she  you  speak  of  well  contrasts  another, 

Whom  once 

Lopis  (r.  c  ).  I  loved  ;  and  still  devoutly  honor. 

This  poor  La  Valliere  ! — could  we  will  affection, 

I  would  have  never  changed.     And  even  now 

I  feel  Athene  has  but  charm' d  my  senses. 

And  my  void  heart  still  murmurs  for  Louise  ! 

I  would  we  could  be  friends,  since  now  not  lovers, 

Nor  dare  be  happy  while  I  know  her  wretched. 
Lap.     Wearies  she  still  your  Majesty  with  prayers, 

Tender  laments,  and  passionate  reproaches  7 
Lopis.  Her  love  outlives  its  hopes 
Lap.  An  irksome  task 

To  witness  tears  we  cannot  kiss  away, 

And  with  cold  friendship  freeze  the  ears  of  love  ! 
Lopis.  Most  irksome  and  most  bootless  ! 
Lap.  Haply,  Sire, 

In  one  so  pure,  the  charm  of  wedded  life 

Might  lull  keen  griefs  to  rest,  and  curb  the  love 

Thou  fliest  from  to  the  friendship  that  thou  seekest  ? 
Lopis.  I've  thought  of  this.     The  Duke  de  Longueville  loves  her, 

And  hath  besought  before  her  feet  to  lay 

His  princely  fortunes. 


ACT  TV.]         THE  DUCHESS  DE  LA  VALLlKRE. 

Lau.     (quickly).  Ha  !— and  she— 

Loms.  Rejects  him. 

Lau.     Sire,  if  love's  sun,  once  set,  bequeaths  a  twilight, 
'Twould  only  hover  o'er  some  form  whom  chance 
Had  link'd  with  Louis— some  one  (though  unworthy) 
Whose  presence  took  a  charm  from  brighter  thoughts 
That  knit  it  with  the  past. 
Louis.  Why,  how  now,  duke  ! — 

Thou  speak'st  not  of  thyself] 
jiAU  1  dare  not,  Sire  ■ 

Louis.  Ha,  ha  !—  poor  Lauzun— what !  the  soft  La  Valliere 

Transfer  her  sorrowing  heart  to  thee  !     Ha,  ha  ! 
Lau.     My  name  is  not  less  noble  than  De  Longueville's  ; 

My  glory  greater,  since  the  world  has  said 

Louis  esteems  me  more. 
L0UISi  Esteems  /—No— favors  ! 

'  And  thou  dost  think  that  she,  who  shrunk  from  love, 

Le3t  love  were  vice,  would  wed  the  wildest  lord 

That  ever  laugh'd  at  virtue  ?  (crosses.) 
Lau  Sire,  you  wrong  me, 

Or  else  you  (pardon  me)  condemn  yourself. 

Is  it  too  much  for  one  the  king  calls  frend 

To  aspire  to  one  the  king  has  call'd 

Louis  (l.  c,  sharply).  "  '  Sir>  ho,d  ! 

I  never  so  malign'd  that  hapless  lady 

As  to  give  her  the  title  only  due 

To  such  as  Montespan,  who  glories  in  it— 

The  last  my  mistress  ;  but  the  first  my  victim  ; 

A  nice  distinction,  taught  not  in  your  logic, 

Which,  but  just  now,  confused  esteem  and  favor. 

Go  to  !  we  kings  are  not  the  dupes  you  deem  us.  (crosses.) 
Lau.    (aside).  So  high  1  I'll  win  La  Valliere  to  avenge  me, 

And  humble  this  imperial  vanity. 

(aloud)  Sire,  I  offend  !     Permit  me  to  retire, 

And  mourn  your  anger ;  nor  presume  to  guess 

Whence  came  the  cause.     And,  since  it  seems  yom-  favor 

Made  me  aspire  too  high,  in  that  I  loved 

Where  you,  Sire,  made  love  noble,  and  half  dream  d 

jligU  Je— nay,  am  not— wholly  there  disdain'd— 

Louis.  How,  duke  1 

LAC  I  do  renounce  at  once 

The  haiiTh'y  vision.     Sire,  permit  my  absence. 
Louis    Lauzun!' thou  hintest  that,  were  suit  allowd  thee, 

la  Valliere  might  not  scorn  it — is  it  so  1 
Lau.    I  crave  your  pardon,  Sire.  - 

L0UIS  Must  I  ask  twice  ? 

Lau.    I  do  believe,  then,  Sire,  with  time  and  patience, 

The  duchess  might  be  won  to— not  reject  me  ! 
Louis.  Go,  then,  and  prove  thy  fortune.     We  permit  thee. 

And,  if  thou  prosperest,  why  then  love's  a  riddle, 

And' woman  is— no  matter!     Go.  my  lord  ! 

We  did  not  mean  to  wound  thee.     So,  forget  it  ! 

Woo  when  thou  wilt— and  wear  what  thou  canst  win. 
Lau     My  gracious  liege,  Lauzun  commends  him  to  thee  ; 

And'if  one  word,  he  merit  not,  may  wound  him, 

He'll  th'nk  of  favors  words  can  never  cancel. 

Memory  shall  med'ciue  to  his  present  pain. 


49 


f,  )  THE  DUCHESS   DS   LA    V  ALU  ERE,  [ACT  IV. 

God  save  you,  Sire — [aside)  to  be  the  dupe  I  deem  you  ! 

[L'x  I  Lauzun,  l.  1  B. 
Louis.  I  love  her  not;  and  yet  methinks,  am  jealous  ! 
Lauzun  is  wise  and  witty — knows  the  sex  ; 
What  if  she  do  1     No  !  I  will  not  believe  it. 
And  what  is  she  to  me  ? — a  friend — a  friend  ! 
And  I  would  have  her  wed.     'Twere  best  for  both— 
A  balm  for  conscience — an  excuse  for  change  ! 
'Twere  best — 1  marvel  much  if  she'll  accept  him  ! 

[Exit  Louis,  it.  1  e, 

SCENE  II. — A  private  apartment  in  the  Palace  of  the  Ducuxss  de  la  V.\r. 
liere.     The  Ducuess  discovered  seated,  u. 

Ditch,  de  la  V.  He  loves  me,  then,  no  longer!     All  the  words 

Earth  knows  shape  but  one  thought — "  He  loves  no  longer  !" 

Where  shall  I  (urn  1     My  mother — my  poor  mother  ! 

Sleeps  the  long  sleep  !     'Tis  better  so  !     Her  life 

Ran  to  its  lees      I  will  not  mourn  for  her. 

But  it  is  hard  to  be  alone  on  earth  ! 

This  love,  for  which  1  gave  so  much,  is  dead, 

Save  in  my  heart  ;  and  love,  surviving  love, 

Changes  its  nature,  and  becomes  despair  ! 

Ah,  me  ! — ah  me  !  how  hateful  is  this  world  ! 

Enter  Gentleman  of  the  Chambek,  l.  d. 

Gent.  The  Duke  de  Lauzun  ! 

Duch.  de  la  V.   (rising).  News,  sweet  news  of  Louis! 

Exit  Gentleman,  l.  d. 
Enter  Lauzun,  l.  d. 

Lau.    Dare  I  disturb  your  thoughts  ? 

Duch.  de  la  V.  My  lord,  you're  welcome  ! 

Came  you  from  court  to-day  ?    {they  advance.) 
Lait.    (l.  a).  I  left  the  king 

But  just  now,  in  the  gardens. 
Ducu.  de  la  V.  (eagerly).  Well  ! 

Lau.  He  bore  him 

With  his  accustom'd  health  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Proceed. 

Lau  Dear  lady, 

I  have  no  more  to  tell. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  (aside).  Alas  !  (aloud1)  No  message  !  # 

Lau.    We  did  converse,  'tis  true,  upon  a  subject 

Most  dear  to  one  of  us.     Your  grace  divines  it  ? 
Duch.  de  la  V.  (joyfully).  Was  it  of  me  he  spoke  1 
Lau.  Of  you 

/spoke,  and  he  replied.     I  praised  your  beauty — 
Duch.  de  la  V.  You  praised  ! 

Lau.    Your  form,  your  face — that  wealth  of  mind 

Which  play'd  you  not  the  miser  and  conceal'd  it, 

Would  buy  up  all  the  coins  that  pass  for  wit. 

The  king,  assenting,  wish'd  he  might  behold  you 

As  happy — as  your  virtues  should  have  made  you. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  'Twas  said  in  mockery  ! 
Lau.  Ladv,  no  ! — in  kindness. 


ACT  IV.  J  THE  DUCHESS   DE   LA   VAEEIERE.  51 

Nay,  more  (he  added),  would  you  yet  your  will 

Mould  to  bis  wish 

Duch.  de  LA  V.  -H**  wish  ! — the  lightest ! 

Lap.  Ah ! 

You  know  not  how  my  heart  throbs  while  you  speak  ! 

Be  not  so  rash  to  promise ;  or,  at  least, 

Be  faithful  to  perform  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  You  speak  in  riddles. 

Lau.    Of  your  lone  state  and  beautiful  affections, 

Form'd  to  make  Home  an  Eden,  our  good  king, 

Tenderly  mindful,  fain  would  see  you  link 

Your -lot  to  one  whose  love  might  be  your  shelter. 

He  spake,  and  all  my  long-conceal'd  emotions 

Gush'd  into  words,  and  I  confess'd — 0  lady, 

Hear  me  confess  once  more — how  well  I  love  thee  ! 

Ditch,  de  da  V.  You  dared  ? — and  he — the  king 

Lau.  Upon  me  smiled, 

And  bade  me  prosper. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Ah!  {trembles,  and  covers  her  face  with  hands.] 

Lau.  Nay,  nay,  look  up  ! 

The  heart  that  could  forsake  a  love  like  thine 

Doth  not  deserve  regret.     Look  up,  dear  lady  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  He  bade  thee  prosper ! 
Lau.  Pardon  !     My  wild  hope 

Outran  discretion. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Louis  bade  thee  prosper  ! 

Lau.    Ah,  if  this  thankless — this  remorseless  love 

Thou  couldst  forget !     Oh,  give  me  but  thy  friendship, 

And  take  respect,  faith,  worship,  all,  in  Lauzun  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Consign  me  to  another  !     Well,  'tis  well  ! 

Earth's  latest  tie  is  broke — earth's  hopes  are  over  ! 
Lau.     Speak  to  me,  sweet  Louise  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  So,  thou  art  he 

To  whom  this  shatterd  heart  should  be  surrender'd  1 

And  thou,  the  high-born,  glittering,  scornful  Lauzun 

Wouldst  take  the  cast-off  leman  of  a  king, 

Nor   think   thyself  disgraced!     Fie! — fie!    thou'rt  shameless! 
(crosses,  in  an  agony  of  grief.) 
Lau.    (r.  a).  You  were  betray'd  by  love,  and  not  by  sin, 

Nor  low  ambition.     Your  disgrace  is  honor 

By  the  false  side  of  dames  the  world  calls  spotless. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  (l.  a).  Go,  sir,  nor  make  me  scorn  you.     If  I've  err'd, 

I  know,  at  least,  the  majesty  of  virtue, 

And  feel — what  you  forget. 
Lau.  Yet  hear  me,  madame  ! 

Duch.  de  la  V.  Go,  go !  You  are  the  king's  friend — you  were  mine  ; 

I  would  not  have  you  thus  debased — refused 

By  one  at  once  the  fallen  and  forsaken  ! 

His  friend  shall  not  be  shamed  so  ! 

[Exit  the  Duchess  de  la  Vallieke,  k.  d. 
Lau.    {passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes).  I  do  swear 

These  eyes  are  moist !     And  he  who  own'd  this  gem 

Casts  it  away,  and  cries  "divine  "  to  tinsel ! 

So  falls  my  hope !     My  fortunes  call  me  back 

To  surer  schemes.     Before  that  ray  of  goodness 

How  many  plots  shrunk,  blinded,  into  shadow  ! 

Lauzun  forgot  himself,  and  dreamt  of  virtue  !  [Exit  Lauzun,  l.  d. 


52  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA  VALLIERE.  [ACT  IV. 

Gentleman  of  the  Chamber  enters,  d.  f.,  followed  by  Bragelone  as  a 
Franciscan  friar. 

Gent.  The  duchess  gone  !     I  fear  me  that,  to-day, 

You  are  too  late  for  audience,  reverend  father. 
Brage.  (a).  Audience! — a  royal  phrase  ! — it  suits  the  duchess. 

Go,  son  ;  announce  me. 
Gent.  By  what  name,  my  father  1 

Bkage.  I've  done  with  names.     Announce  a  nameless  monk, 

Whose  prayers  have  risen  o'er  some  graves  she  honors. 
Gent,  {aside).   My  lady  is  too  lavish  of  her  bounty 

To  these  proud  shavelings  ;  yet,  methinks,  this  friar 

Hath  less  of  priest  than  warrior  in  his  bearing. 

He  awes  me  with  his  stern  and  thrilling  voice, 

His  stately  gesture,  and  imperious  eye. 

And  yet,  I  swear,  he  comes  for  alms  ! — the  varlet ! 

Why  should  I  heed  him  7 
Brage.  Didst  thou  hear  ?     Begone ! 

[Exit  Gentleman,  it.  d. 

Yes,  she  will  know  me  not.     My  lealest  soldier, 

One  who  had  march'd,  bare-breasted,  on  the  steel, 

If  I  had  bid  him  cast  away  the  treasure 

Of  the  o'er-valued  life;  the  nurse  that  rear'd  me, 

Or  mine  own  mother,  in  these  shroudlike  robes, 

And  in  the  immature  and  rapid  age 

Which,  from  my  numb'd  and  withering  heart,  hath  crept 

Unto  my  features,  now  might  gaze  upon  me, 

And  pass  the  stranger-by.     Why  should  she  know  me, 

If  they  who  loved  me  know  not  ?     Hark  !  I  hear  her  : 

That  silver  footfall  ! — still  it  hath  to  me 

Its  own  peculiar  and  most  spiritual  music, 

Trembling  along  the  pulses  of  the  air, 

And  dying  on  the  heart  that  makes  its  echo ! 

'Tis  she  !     How  lovely  yet ! 

Re-enter  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere. 

OaCH.  de  la  V.   {bending).  Your  blessing,  father. 

Brage.  Let  courts  and  courtiers  bless  the  favor'd  duchess  : 

Courts  bless  the  proud;  Heaven's  ministers,  the  humble. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  {aside).  He  taunts  me,  this  poor  friar  !   {aloud)  Well,  1113 
father, 

I  have  obey'd  your  summons.     Do  you  seek 

Masses  for  souls  departed  ? — or  the  debt 

The  wealthy  owe  the  poor  1 — say  on  ! 
Brage.  {aside).  Her  heart 

Is  not  yet  harden'd  !  {aloud)  Daughter,  such  a  mission 

Were  sweeter  than  the  task  which  urged  me  hither : 

You  had  a  lover  once — a  plain,  bold  soldier  ; 

He  loved  you  well ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Ah,  Heaven  1 

Brage.  And  you  forsook  him. 

Your  choice  was  natural — some  might  call  it  noble  ! 

And  this  blunt  soldier  pardon'd  the  desertion, 

But  sunk  at  what  his  folly  term'd  dishonor. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  0  father,  spare  me  ! — if  dishonor  were, 

It  rested  but  with  me. 


ACT  IV.]  THE   DUCHESS   Dii   LA  VAULT  ERE.  53 

Brage.  So  deem'd  the  world, 

Bat  not  that  foolish  soldier  ! — he  had  learn'd 
To  blend  his  thoughts,  his  fame,  himself,  with  thee; 
Thou  wert  a  purer,  a  diviner  self ; 
He  loved  thee  as  a  warrior  worships  glory ; 
He  loved  thee  as  a  Roman  honor'd.  virtue  ; 
He  loved  thee  as  thy  sex  adore  ambition  ; 
And  when  Pollution  breathed  upon  his  idol, 
It  blasted  glory,  virtue,  and  ambition, 
Fill'd  up  each  crevice  in  the  world  of  thought, 
And  poison'd  earth  with  thy  contagious  shame  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Spare  me !  in  mercy,  spare  me  ! 
Buage.  This  poor  fool, 

This  shadow,  living  only  on  thy  lisht, 
When  thou  wert  darken'd,  could  but  choose  to  die. 
He  left  the  wars ; — no  fame,  since  thine  was  dim  ; 
He  left  his  land  ; — what  home  without  Louise  1 
It  broke — that  stubborn,  stern,  unbending  heart — 
It  broke  !  and,  breaking,  its  last  sigh — forgave  thee  ! 
Dl-ch.  de  la  V.  And  I  live  on  ! 

Brage.  One  eve,  methinks,  he  told  me, 

Thy  hand  arouod  his  hauberk  wound  a  scarf ; 
And  thy  voice  bade  him  "  Wear  it  for  the  sake 
Of  one  who  honor'd  worth  !  "     Were  those  the  words  ? 
Duch.  de  la  V.  They  were.     Alas!  alas! 
Brage.  He  wore  it,  lady, 

Till  memory  ceased.     It  was  to  him  the  token 
Of  a  sweet  dream  ;  and,  from  his  quiet  grave, 
He  sends  it  now  to  thee,  i  produces  faded  scarf  from  beneath  his 
robe)  Its  hues  are  faded. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Give  it  me  ! — let  me  bathe  it  with  my  tears  ! 

Memorial  of  my  guilt — 
Brage.  (in  a  soft  and  tender  accent).  And  his  forgiveness  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  That  tone  !  ha  !  while  thou  speakest,  in  thy  voice, 
And  in  thy  presence,  there  is  something  kindred 

To  him  we  jointly  mourn  ;  thou  art 

Brage.  His  brother ; 

Of  whom,  perchance,  in  ancient  years  he  told  thee  ; 
Who,  early  wearied  of  this  garish  world, 
Fled  to  the  convent  shade,  and  found  repose. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  (approaching).  Ay,  is  it  so  ? — thou'rt  Bragelone's  brother  ? 
Why,  then,  thou  art  what  he  would  be,  if  living — 
A  friend  to  one  most  friendless  ! 
Bi:age.  Friendless — Ah, 

Thou  hast  learnt,  betimes,  the  truth,  that  man's  wild  passion 
Makes  but  its  sport  of  virtue,  peace,  affection  ; 
And  br<-  iks  the  plaything  when  the  game  is  done  1 
Friendless  ! — I  pity  thee  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  [clasping  him,  appe  dingly)    Oh  !  holy  father, 
Stay  with  me  ! — succor  me  ! — reprove,  but  guide  me  ; 
Teach  me  to  wean  my  thoughts  from  earth  to  heaven, 
And  be  what  God  ordain'd  His  chosen  priests — 
Foes  to  our  sin,  but  friends  to  our  despair. 
Brage.  Daughter,  a  heavenly  and  a  welcome  duty, 
But  one  most  rigid  and  austere  ;  there  is 
No  composition  with  our  debts  of  sin. 
God  claims  thy  soul ;  and,  lo  !  his  creature  there  I 


54  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA    VALLIERE.  [ACT  IV. 

Thy  choice  must  be  between  them — GoJ  or  man, 

Virtue  or  guilt  ;  a  Louis  or 

Ducn.  Li!  la  V.  A  Louis  ! 

Not  mine  the  poor  atonement  of  the  choice  ; 

I  am,  myself,  the  Abandon'd  One! 
Bkage.  I  know  it  ; 

Therefore  my  mission  and  my  ministry. 

When  lie  who  loved  thee  died,  he  bade  me  wait 

The  season  when  the  sicklied  blight  of  change 

Creeps  o'er  the  bloom  of  Passion,  when  the  way 

Is  half  prepared  by  sorrow  to  repentance, 

And  seek  you  thou — lie  trusted  not  in  vain  ; 

Perchance  an  idle  hope,  but  it  consoled  him. 
Ddch.  de  la  V.  No,  no  ! — not  idle — in  my  happiest  hours, 

When  the  world  smiled    a  void  was  in  this  heart 

The  world  could  never  fdl  ;  thy  brother  knew  me  ! 
BaAOE.  I  do  believe  thee,  daughter.     Hear  me  yet  ; 

My  mission  is  not  ended;     When  thy  mother 

Lay  on  the  bed  of  death   (she  went  before 

The  sterner  heart  the  same  blow  broke  more  slowly) — 

As  thus  she  lay,  around  the  swimming  walls 

Her  dim  eyes  wander'd,  searching  through  the  shadows, 

As  if  the  spirit,  ha.f-redeom'd  from  clay, 

Could  force  its  will  to  shape,  and,  from  the  darkness, 

Body  a  daughter's  image — (nay,  be  still  ') 

Thou  wert  not  there — alas  !  thy  shame  had  murder'd 

Even  the  blessed  sadness  of  that  duty  ! 

But  o'er  that  pillow  watch'd  a  sleepless  eye. 

And  by  that  couch  moved  one  untiring  step, 

And  o'er  that  suffering  rose  a  ceaseless  prayer  ; 

And  still  thy  mother's  voice,  when'er  it  call'd 

Upon  a  daughter — found  a  son  ! 
Pitch,  de  LA  V.  {overcome  with  emotion,  she  buries  her  fare  in  her  hands  and 
sinks  upon  her  knees  before  him).  0,  Heaved  ' 

Have  mercy  on  me  ! 
Brage.  Coldly  through  the  lattice 

Gleam'd  the  slow  dawn,  and  from  their  latest  sleep, 

Woke  the  sad  eyes  it  was  not  thine  to  close  ! 

And  the  thin  hairs — grown  gray,  but  not  by  Time — 

Of  that  lone  watcher — while  upon  her  heart 

Gush'd  all  the  memories  of  the  mighty  wrecks 

Thy  guilt  had  made  of  wdiat  were  once  the  shrines 

For  Honor,  Peace,  and  God  ! — that  aged  woman 

(She  was  a  hero's  wife)  upraised  her  voice 

To  curse  her  child  ! 
Ditch,  de  la  V.  Go  on  ! — be  kind,  and  kill  me  ! 

Brage.  Then  he,  whom  thoughts  of  what  he  was  to  thee 

Had  made  her  son,  arrested  on  her  lips 

The  awful  doom,  and,  from  the  earlier  past, 

Invoked  a  tender  spell — a  holier  image  ! 

Painted  thy  gentle,  soft,  obedient  childhood — 

Thy  guileless  youth,  lone  state,  and  strong  temptation  ; 

Thy  very  sin  the  overflow  of  thoughts 

From  wells  whose  source  was  innocence  ;  and  thus 

Sought,  with  the  sunshine  of  thy  maiden  spring, 

To  melt  the  ice  that  lay  upon  her  heart, 

Till  all  the  mother  flow'd  again  ! 


ACT  IX.]  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALXJEKE.  55 

Doch.  de  la  V.  And  she  ! 

Brage.  Spoke  only  once  again  !— she  died— and  bless' d  thee 

Duoh.  de  LA  V.  [vehemently,  springing  up).  No  more  !     I  can  no  move  !— 

my  heart  is  breaking  !  {rushes  off,  i*.  d.) 
Brage.  The  angel  hath  not  left  her  !— if  the  plumes 

Have  lost  the  whiteness  of  their  younger  glory, 

The  wings  have  still  the  instinct  of  the  skies, 

And  vet  shall  bear  her  up  ! 
Louis  (without,  l  ).  We  need  you  not,  sir  ; 

Ourself  will  seek  the  duchess  ! 
Brage.  {takes  the  stage  l.).  The  king's  voice  ! 

How  my  flesh  creeps  !— my  foe,  and  her  destroyer  ! 

The  ruthless,  heartless— (his  hand  seeks  rapidly  and  mechanically  for 
his  sword-hilt)  Why,  why  !— where's  my  sword  1 

0,  Lord !  I  do  forget  myself  to  dotage  ; 

The  soldier,  now,  is  a  poor  helpless  monk, 

That  hath  not  even  curses.     Satan,  hence  ! 

Get  thee  behind  me,  Tempter!— there,  I'm  calm,  (crosses  to  r.) 

Enter  Louis,  c.  d.,  and  advancing. 

Louis.  I  can  no  more  hold  parley  with  impatience, 

But  long  to  learn  how  Lauzun's  courtship  prospers. 

She  is  not  here.     At  prayers,  perhaps.     The  duchess 

Hath  grown  devout,  (observing  Bragelohe)    A  friar  ! — Save  yoa, 
father ! 
Bkage.  I  thank  thee,  son. 

Louis  (c,  aside).  He  knows  me  not.  (aloud)  Well,  monk, 

Are  you  her  grace's  almoner  ? 
BRAGE.  Sire,  no  !  (the  King  starts.) 

Louis.  So  short,  vet  know  us  1 
Brage.  (advances  to  k.  c).  Sire,  I  do.     You  are 

The  man 

Louis,  (indignantly).  How,  priest  '.—the  man  ! 

Brage .'  T],e  worcl  °ffends  y°u  • 

The  king,  who  raised  a  maiden  to  a  duchess. 

That  maiden's  father  was  a  gallant  subject ; 

Kingly  reward — you  made  his  daughter  duchess. 

That  maiden's  mother  was  a  stainless  matron  ; 

Her  heart  you  broke,  though  mother  to  a  duchess  ! 

That  maiden  was  affianced  from  her  youth 

To  one  who  served  you  well — nay,  saved  your  life  ; 

His  life  vou  robb'd  of  all  that  gave  life  value  ; 

Arid  yet— you  made  his  fair  betroth  d  a  duchess  ! 

You  are  that  king.     The  world  proclaims  you  "  Great ;  " 

A  million  warriors  bled  to  buy  your  laurels; 

A  million  peasants  starved  to  build  Versailles  : 

Your  people  famish  ;  but  your  court  is  splendid  ! 

Priests  from  the  pulpit  bless  your  glorious  reign  ; 

Poets  have  sung  you  greater  than  Augustus  ; 

And  painters  placed  you  on  immortal  canvas, 

Limn'd  as  the  Jove  whose  thunders  awe  the  world  ; 

But  to  the  humble  servant  of  Heaven 

You  are  the  king  who  has  betray'd  his  trust — 

Beggar'd  a  nation  but  to  bloat  a  court, 

Seen  in  men's  lives  the  pastime  to  ambition, 

Look'd  but  on  virtue  as  the  toy  for  vice  ; 


..  i  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIEBE.  [\C£  l»*. 

And,  for  the  first  time,  from  a  subject's  lips, 

Now  learns  the  name  he  leaves  to  Time  and  God  ! 
Louis.  Add  to  the  bead-roll  of  that  king's  offences, 

That  when  a  foul-mouth'd  monk  assumed  the  rebel, 

The  monster-king  forgave  him.     Hast  thou  done  1 
Bhage.  Your  changing  hu^s  belie  your  royal  mien  ; 

III  the  high  monarch  veils  the  trembling  man  ! 
Louis.  Well,  you  are  privilege  1 !     It  ne'er  was  said 

The  Fourteenth  Louis,  i;i  his  proudest  hour. 

B  >w'd  not  his  sceptre  to  the  Church's  crozier. 
Brage.  Alas  !  the  Church!     "fis  true,  this  garb  of  serge 

Dares  speech  that  daunts  the  ermine,  and  walks  free 

Where  stout  hearts  tremble  in  the  triple  mail. 

But  wherefore  ?— Lies  the  virtue  in  the  robe, 

Which  the  moth  eats  1  or  in  these  senseless  beads  ? 

Or  in  the  name  of  Priest  1     The  Pharisees 

II  id  priests  that  gave  their  Saviour  to  the  cross  ! 

No  !  we  have  high  immunity  and  sanction, 

That  Truth  may  teach  humanity  to  Power, 

Glide  through  the  dungeon   pierce  the  armed  throng, 

Awaken  Luxury  on  her  Sybarite  couch, 

A  id,  startling  souls  that  slumber  on  a  throne, 

Bjw  kings  before  that  priest  of  priests—  tub  Conscience  !  {they 
cross. ) 
L:>uis  (r.  c. — aside).  An  awful  man  !—  unlike  the  reverend  crew 

Who  praise  my  royal  virtues  in  the  pulpit, 

And — ask  for  bishoprics  when  church  is  over  ! 
Bit  age.  (l.  c  .).  This  makes  us  sacred.     The  profane  are  they 

Honoring  the  herald  while  they  scorn  the  mission. 

The  king  who  serves  the  Church,  yet  clings  to  Mammon  ; 

Who  fears  the  pastor,  but  forgets  the  flock  ; 

Who  bows  before  the  monitor,  and  yet 

Will  ne'er  forego  the  sin,  may  sink,  when  age 

Palsies  the  lust  and  deadens  the  temptation, 

To  the  priest-ridden,  not  repentant,  dotard, — 

For  pious  hopes  hail  superstitious  terrors, 

An  1  seek  some  sleek  Iscariot  of  the  Church, 

To  sell  salvation  for  the  thirty  pieces ! 
Louis  {aside).  He  speaks  as  one  inspired  ! 
Buage.  {crosses).  Awake! — awake! 

Great  though  thou  art,  awake  thee  from  the  dream 

That  earth  was  made  for  kings— mankind  for  slaughter — 

Woman  for  lust — the  people  for  the  palace  ! 

Dark  warnings  have  gone  forth  ;  along  the  air 

Lingers  the  crash  of  the  first  Charles's  throne  ! 

Behold  the  young,  the  fair,  the  haughty  king  ! 

The  kneeling  courtiers,  and  the  flattering  priests  ; 

Lo  !   where  the  palace  rose,  behold  the  scaffold — 

The  crowd — the  axe — the  headsman— and  the  victim  ! 

Lord  of  the  silver  lilies,  canst  thou  tell 

If  the  same  fate  await  not  thy  descendant ! 

If  some  meek  son  of  thine  imperial  line 

May  make  no  brother  to  yon  headless  spectre ! 

And  when  the  sage  who  saddens  o'er  the  end 

Tracks  back  the  causes,  tremble,  lest  he  find 

The  seeds,  thy  wars,  thy  pomp,  and  thy  profusion 

Sow'd  in  a  heartless  court  and  breadlcss  people, 


ACr  IV.]  THE  DUCHESS  DE  IiA  VATiLIERE.  57 

Grew  to  the  tree  from  which  men  shaped  the  scaffold — 

And  the  long  glare  of  thy  funeral  glories 

Light  unborn  monarchs  to  a  ghastly  grave  ! 

Beware,  proud  king  !  the  Present  cries  aloud,  (moves  up  the  stage 

whilst  speaking) 
A  prophet  to  the  future  !     Wake ! — beware  ! 

[Exit  Bragelone   c  d 
Louis,  (uneasily).  Gone  !     Most  ill-omen'd  voice  and  fearful  shape  ! 
Scarce  seeni'd  it  of  the  earth  ;  a  thing  that  breathed 
But  to  fulfill  some  dark  and  dire  behest ; 
To  appal  us,  and  to  vanish. — The  quick  blood 
Halts  in  my  veins.     Oh  !  never  till  this  hour 
Heard  I  the  voice  that  awed  the  soul  of  Louis, 
Or  met  one  brow  that  did  not  quail  before 

My  kingly  gaze  !  (  pacing  to  and  fro)  And  this  unmitred  monk  ! 
I'm  glad  that  none  were  by. — It  was  a  dream  ; 
So  let  its  memory  like  a  dream  depart. 
I  am  no  tyrant — nay,  I  love  my  people. 
My  wars  were  made  but  for  the  fame  of  France  ; 
My  pomp!  why,  tush  ! — what  king  can  play  the  hermit  ! 
My  conscience  smites  me  not  ;  and  but  last  eve 
I  did  confess,  and  was  absolved  !     A  bigot  ; 
And  half,  methinks,  a  heretic  !     I  wish 
The  Jesuits  had  the  probing  of  his  doctrines. 
Well,  well,  'tis  o'er  ! — What  ho,  there  ! 

Enter  Gentleman  op  the  Chamber,  l.  d. 

Wine  !     Apprise 
Once  more  the  duchess  of  our  presence — Stay  ! 
Yon  monk,  what  doth  he  here  1 
Gent.  I  know  not,  Sire, 

Nor  saw  him  till  this  day. 
Louis.  Strange ! — Wine ! 

[Exit  Gentleman,  r.  d. 

Re-enter  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere. 

(c.)  Well,  madam, 

We've  tarried  long  your  coming,  and  meanwhile 
Have  found  your  proxy  in  a  madman  monk, 
Whom,  for  the  future,  we  would  pray  you  spare  us. 

Re-enter  Gnntleman,  with  goblet  of  wine  on  salver,  the  King  drinks. 
Gentleman,  r.  d. 

So,  so  !  the  draught  restores  us.     Fair  La  Valliere, 

Make  not  yon  holy  man  your  confessor  ; 

You'll  find  small  comfort  in  his  lectures. 
Ducu   delaV.  (r.  a).  Sire, 

His  meaning  is  more  kindly  than  his  manner. 

I  pray  you,  pardon  him. 
Louis.  Ay,  ay  !     No  more  ; 

Let's  think  of  him  no  more.     You  had,  this  mom, 

A  courtlier  visitant,  methinks — De  Lauzun  1 
Ducu.  de  la  V.  Yes,  Sire. 

Louis.  A  smooth  and  gallant  gentleman. 


58  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIEEE.  [ACT  IV. 

You're  silent      Silence  is  assent  !  'tis  well ! 
Duch.  DE  LA  V.  (aside),  Down,  my  full  heart !  (aloud)  The  duke  declaims 
your  wish 

Is  that — that  I  should  bind  this  broken  heart 

And — no!     I  cannot  speak!  (with  great  and  sudden   energy)    You 
wish  me  wed,  Sire  ? 
Louis.  'Twere  best  that  you  should  wed?  and  yet,  De  Lauzun 

Is  scarce  the  happiest  choice. — But  as  thou  wilt. 
Ducu.de  la  V.  "'Twere   best   that   I   should  wed?" — thou  saidst   , 
Louis; 

Say  it  once  more  ! 
Louis.  In  honesty,  I  think  so. 

Duch.  de  la  V.  My  choice  is  made,  then — I  obey  the  fiat, 

And  will  become  a  bride  ! 
Louis.  The  duke  has  sped  ! 

I  trust  he  loves  thyself,  and  not  thy  dower. 
Duch   de  la  V.  The  duke !  what,  hast  thou  read  so  ill  this  soul 

That  thou  couldst  deem  thus  meanly  of  that  book 

Whose  every  page  was  bared  to  thee  1     A  bitter 

Lot  has  been  mine — and  this  sums  up  the  measure. 

Go,  Louis  !  go  ! — All  glorious  as  thou  art — 

Earth's  Agamemnon — the  areat  kin<j  of  men — 

Thou  wert  not  worthy  of  this  woman's  heart  ! 
Louis  (aside).   Her   passion   moves  me  !  (aloud)  Then   your   choice  has 
fallen 

Upon  a  nobler  bridegroom  ? 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Sire,  it  hath  ! 

Louis.  May  I  demand  that  choice. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Too  soon  thou'lt  learn  it. 

Not  yet !     Ah,  me  ! 
Louis.  Nay,  siiih  not,  my  sweet  duchess. 

Speak  not  sadly.     What  though  love  hath  past, 

Friendship  remains;  and  still  my  fondest  hope 

Is  to  behold  thee  happy.     Come  ! — thy  hand  ; 

Let  us  be  friends !     We  are  so ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Friends  /—no  more  ! 

So  it  hath  come  to  this!     I  am  contented  ! 

Yes — we  are  friends  ! 
Louis.  And  when  your  choice  is  made, 

You  will  permit  your  friend  to  hail  your  bridals  1 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Ay,  when  my  choice  is  made  ! 
Louis.  This  poor  de  Lauzun  1 

Hath  then  no  chance  ?     I'm  glad  of  it,  and  thus 

Seal  our  new  bond  of  friendship  on  your  hand,  (kisses  her  hand) 

Adieu  ! — and  Heaven  protect  you  !  [Exit  Louis,  l.  d. 

Duch  db  la  V.  (gazing  after  him).  Heaven  hath  heard  thee  ; 

And  in  this  last  most  cruel,  but  most  gracious 

Proof  of  thy  coldness,  breaks  the  lingering  chain 

That  bound  my  soul  to  earth. 

Re-enter  Bragelone,  c.  d. 

0,  holy  father  ! 
Brother  to  him  whose  grave  my  suilt  prepared, 
Witness  my  firm  resolve,  support  my  struggles, 
And  guide  me  back  to  Virtue  through  Repentance  ! 
Brage.  Pause,  ere  thou  dost  decide. 


ACT  V.]  THE   DUCHESS   DE  tA   VAI/LIEEE.  50 

Duch.  de  la  V.  I've  paused  too  long, 

And  now,  impatient  of  this  weary  load, 
Sigh  for  repose. 
Brage.  0,  Heaven,  receive  her  back  ! 

Through  the  wide  earth,  the  sorrowing  dove  hath  flown, 
And  found  no  haven  ;  weary  though  her  wing 
And  sullied  with  the  dust  of  lengthen'd  travail, 
Now  let  her  flee  away  and  be  at  rest! 
The  peace  that  man  has  broken — Thou  restore, 
Whose  holiest  name  is  Father  !   (soft  music  ) 
Duch.  de  la  V.  (sinks  on  her  knees,  raising  her  hands  in  prayer  whilst  clasp- 
ing Bkagelone's  left  hand,  he  standing  with  uplifted  faci, 
and  his  right  hand  raised  pointing  upwards). 
Hear  us,  Heaven  ! 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— The  Gardens  at  Versailles. 
Enter  Madame  de  Montespan,  Grammont,  l.  1  e.,  and  Courtiers,  r.  1  E. 

Mme.  de  Mon.  So  she  has  fled  from  court — the  saintly  duchess; 

A  convent's  grate  must  shield  this  timorous  virtue. 

Methinks  they're  not  so  many  to  assail  it ! 

Well,  trust  me,  one  short  moon  of  fast  and  penance 

Will  bring  us  back  the  recreant  novice 

Gram.  And 

End  the  eventful  comedy  by  marriage. 

Lauzun  against  the  world  were  even  odds  ; 

But  Lauzun  with  the  world — what  saint  can  stand  it  ! 
Mme.  de  Mos.  (aside).  Lauzun! — the  traitor !     What!  to  give  my  rival 

The  triumph  to  reject  the  lawful  love 

Of  him  whose  lawless  passion  first  betray'd  me  ! 
Gram.  Talk  of  the  devil !     Humph — yon  know  the  proverb. 

Enter  Lauzun,  r.  1  e. 

Lau.    Good  day,  my  friends.     Your  pardon,  madame ;  I 

Thought  'twas  the  sun  that  blinded  me.  (aside)  Athene, 

Pray  you,  a  word. 
Mme.  de  Mon.  (aloud,  and  turning  away  disdainfully).   We  are  not  at  lei- 
sure, duke. 
Lau.    Ha  !  (aside)  Nay,  Athene,  spare  your  friend  these  graces. 

Forget  your  state  one  moment;  have  you  ask'd 

The  king  the  office  that  you  undertook 

To  make  my  own  1     My  creditors  are  urgent. 
Mme.  de  Mon.  (aloud).  No,  my  lord  duke,  I  have  not  ask'd  the  king! 

1  grieve  to  hear  your  fortunes  are  so  broken, 

And  that  your  honor'd  and  august  device, 

To  mend  them  by  your  marriage,  fail'd. 
Gram  (aside).  She  hits  him 

Hard  on  the  hip.     Ha,  ha  ! — the  poor  De  Lauzun  ! 
Lau.    Sir! — Nay,  I'm  calm  ! 
Mme.  de  Mon  Pray,  may  we  dare  to  ask 

How  long  vou've  loved  the  duchess  ? 


60  THE    DUCHESS    DE    LA    VALLIERE.  [ACT  V. 

Lau.  Ever  since 

You  were  her  friend  and  confidante. 
Mme.  de  Mon.  You're  bitter. 

Perchance  you  deem  your  love  a  thing  to  boast  of. 
Lau.    To  boast  of? — Yes!     'Tis  something  e'en  to  love 

The  only  woman  Louis  ever  honor1  d! 
Mme.  de  Mon.  {laying  her  hand  on  Lauzin's  arm).  Insolent!     You  shall 
rue  tliis  !     If  I  speak 

Your  name  to  Louis,  coupled  with  a  favor, 

The  suit  shall  be  your  banishment  ! 

VI  ADAMS  DB  Mon  iksi-a.n,  ft.   1  e. 
First  Cour.  Let's  follow. 

Ha!  ha! — Dear  duke,  your  game,  I  fear,  is  lost! 

You've  play'd  the  knave,  and  thrown  away  the  king. 
Coi'RTiERS.   Ha!  ha! — Adieu!  [Exeunt,  ft,  1  e. 

Lac.  11a  !   ha  ! — The  devil  take  you! 

So,  she  would  ruin  me!     Fore-arm'd — fore- War  [I'd  ! 

1  have  the  king's  ear  yet,  and  know  BOme  BecretS 

That  could  destroy  her!      Since  La  Vallicre's  flight, 

Louis  grows  sad  and  thoughtful,  and  looks  cold 

On  her  vain  rival,  who  too  coarsely  shows 

The  world  the  stuff  court  ladies'  hearts  are  made  of. 

She  will  undo  herself— and  I  will  help  her. 

Weave  on  thy  web,  false  Monteapan,  weave 

The  bigger  spider  shall  devour  the  smaller. 

The  war's  declared — 'lis  clear  that  one  inn-:  fall  ; — 

I'll  be  polite — the  lady  to  the  wall  !  [  Ea  t  LkVtVS,  l.  1  e. 

SCENE  II. — Sunset — the  old  Chateau  of  La  Valiiht — iht  Convent  of  the 

Carmelites  at  a  distance — same  scene  as  that  with  te/iich  the  ploy  opens. 

Enter  the  DucHSSS  i>e  LA  Yalliere  and  Bragelone  from  the  Chateau. 

Ducii.  de  la  V.  Once  more,  ere  yet  I  take  farewell  of  earth, 

I  see  mine  old,  familiar,  maiden  home! 

All  how  unchanged  ! — The  same,  the  hour,  the  scene, 

The  very  season  of  the  year  ! — the  stillness 

Of  the  smooth  wave — the  stdlness  of  the  trees, 

Where  the  winds  sleep  like  dreams  !  and,  oil  !  the  calm 

Of  the  blue  heavens  around  yon  holy  spires, 

Pointing,  like  gospel  truths,  through  calm  and  storm, 

To  man's  great  home ! 
Brage.  (aside).  Oh  !  how  the  years  recede  ! 

Upon  this  spot  I  spoke  to  her  of  love, 

And  dreamt  of  bliss  for  earth !  (the  vesper  bell  tolls.) 
Ducu.  de  la  V.  Hark  !  the  deep  sound, 

That  seems  a  voice  from  some  invisible  spirit, 

Claiming  the  world  for  God. — When  last  I  heard  it 

Hallow  this  air,  here  stood  my  mother,  living  ; 

And  I — was  then  a  mother's  pride  ! — and  yonder 

Came  thy  brave  brother  in  his  glittering  mail ; 

And — ah  !  these  thoughts  are  bitter! — were  he  living, 

How  would  he  scorn  them  ! 
Brage.  (ivho  has  been  greatly  agitated').  No! — ah,  no  ! — thou  wrong'st  him  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Yet,  were  he  living,  could  I  but  receive 

From  his  own  lips  my  pardon,  and  his  blessins, 

My  soul  would  deem  one  dark  memorir.l  'rased 


ACT  V.]  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLLERE.  Gl 

Out  of  the  page  most  blister'd  with  its  tears  ! 
Brage.  Then  have  thy  wish  !  and  in  these  wrecks  of  man 

Worn  to  decay,  and  rent  by  many  a  storm, 

Survey  the  worm  the  world  callM  Biagelone. 
Duch.  de  la*  V.  Avaunt !— -avaunt !— I  dream  !— the  dead  return'd 

To  earth  to  mock  me  ! — No  !  this  hand  is  warm  ! 

1  have  one  murther  less  upon  my  soul. 

I  thank  thee,  Heaven! — {swoons.) 
Brage.  (supporting  her).  The  blow  strikes  home;  and  yet 

What  is  my  life  to  her  ?     Louise  !— She  moves  not ! 

She  does  not  breathe;  how  still  she  sleeps'  I  saw  her 

Sleep  in  her  mother's  arms,  and  then,  in  sleep 

She  smiled.     There's  no  smile  now  ! — poor  child  !   {kissing  her)   One 
kiss ! 

It  is  a  brother's  kiss — it  has  no  guilt  ; 

Kind  Heaven,  it  has  no  guilt. — I  have  survived 

All  earthlier  thoughts  ;  her  crime,  my  vows,  effaced  them. 

A  brother's  kiss! — Away  !     I'm  human  still  ; 

I  thought  I  had  been  stronger ;  God  forgive  me  ! 

Awake,  Louise !— awake  !     She  breathes  once  more  ; 

The  spell  is  broke  ;  the  marble  warms  to  life  ! 

And  I — freeze  back  to  stone  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  [reviving).  I  heard  a  voice 

That  cried  "Louise  !" — Speak,  speak  ! — my  sense  is  dim, 

And  struggles  darkly  with  a  blessed  ray 

That  shot  from  heaven. — My  shame  hath  not  destroy'd  thee  ! 
Brage.  No  !— life  might  yet  serve  thee!—  and  I  lived  on, 

Dead  to  all  else.     1  took  the  vows,  and  then, 

Ere  yet  I  laid  me  down,  and  bade  the  Past 

Fade  like  a  ghost  before  the  dawn  of  heaven, 

One  sacred  task  was  left. — If  love  was  dust, 

Love,  like  ourselves,  hath  an  immortal  soul, 

That  doth  survive  whate'er  it  takes  from  clay  ; 

And  that — the  holier  part  of  love  became 

A  thing  to  watch  thy  steps — a  guardian  spirit 

To  hover  round,  disguised,  unknown,  undream'd  of, 

To  soothe  the  sorrow,  to  redeem  the  sin, 

And  lead  thy  soul  to  peace  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  0  bright  revenge  ! 

Love  strong  as  death,  and  nobler  far  than  woman's  ! 
Brage.  To  peace — ah,  let  me  deem  so  !— the  mute  cloister, 

The  spoken  ritual,  and  the  solemn  veil, 

Are  naught  themselves— the  Huguenot  abjures 

The  monkish  cell,  but  breathes,  perchance  the  prayer 

That  speeds  as  quick  to  the  Eternal  Throne  ! 

In  our  own  souls  must  be  the  solitude  ; 

In  our  own  thoughts  the  sanctity  ! — 'Tis  then 

The  feeling  that  our  vows  have  built  the  wall 

Passion  can  storm  not,  nor  temptation  sap, 

Gives  calm  its  charter,  roots  out  wild  regret, 
And  makes  the  heart  the  world-disdaining  cloister. 
This— this  is  peace  !  but  pause !  if  in  thy  breast 
Linger  the  wish  of  earth.     Alas  !  all  oaths 
Are  vain,  if  nature  shudders  to  record  them — 
The  subtle  spirit  'scapes  the  sealed  vessel  ! 
The  false  devotion  is  the  true  despair  ! 
Duch   de  la  V.  Fear  not  !— 1  feel  'tis  not  the  walls  of  stone, 


I',.!  THE   DUCHESS   DE   LA   VALLJKlii:.  [AC1    V. 

Told  beads,  nor  murmur'd  hymns,  that  bind  the  heart, 

Or  exorcise  the  world  ;  the  spell's  the  thought 

That  where  must  weak  we'v  banish'd  the  temptation, 

And  reconciled,  wliat  earth  would  st ill  divide, 

Tli*>  human  memories  and  the  immortal  conscience. 
Bkage    Doubt  fades  before  thine  accents.     On  the  day 

That  gives  thee  to  the  veil  we'll  meet  once  more. 

Let  mine  be  man's  last  blessing  in   this  world. 

Oh  !  tell  me  then,  thou'rt  happier  than  thou  hast  been  ; 

And  when  we  part,  I'll  seek  BOine  hermit  cell 

Beside  the  walls  that  compass  thee,  and  prayer, 

Morning  and  night,  shall  join  our  souls  in  heaven. 
Duch.  DE  la  V.  Yes,  generous  spirit  !  think  not  that  my  future 

Shall  be  repining  as  the  past.     Thou  livest, 

And  conscience  smiles  a^ain.     The  shatter'd  bark 

Glides  to  its  haven.     Joy  !   the  land  is  near  ! 

[Exit  into  the  chateau,  dropping  her  glove  as  she  go 
Hit  ace.   So,  it  is  past! — the  secret  is  disclosed  ! 

The  band  she  did  reject  on  earth  has  led  her 

To  holier  ties.     I  have  not  lived  in  vain  ! 

Yet  who  had  dream'd,  when  through  the  ranks  of  war 

Went  the  loud  shout  of  "  France  and  Bragelone  !" 

That  the  monk's  cowl  would  close  on  all  my  laurels  1 

A  never-heard  philosopher    is  life! 

Our  happiest  hours  are  sleep's — and  sleep  proclaims, 

Did  we  but  listen  to  its  warning  voice, 

That  rest  is  earth's  elixir.       Why,  then,  pine 

That,  ere  our  years  grow  feverish  with  their  toil, 

Too  weary-worn  to  find  the  rest  they  sigh  for, 

We  learn  betimes  the  moral  of  repose  ? 

I  will  lie  down,  and  sleep  away  this  world. 

The  pause  of  care,  the  slumber  of  tired  passion, 

Why.  why  defer  till  nioht  is  well-nigh  spent  ? 

When  the  brief  sun  that  silt  the  landscape  sets, 

When  o'er  the  music  on  the  leaves  of  life 

Chill  silence  falls,  and  every  fluttering  hope 

That  voiced  the  world  with  son«  has  gone  to  rest, 

Then  let  thy  soul,  from  the  poor  laborer,  learn 

"  Sleep's  sweetest  taken  soonest  !"  (as  he  moves  aioag,  hi*  eyefaUt 
upon  the  glare  ;  lie  takes  it  tip) 

And  this  hath  touch'd  her  hand — it  were  a  comfort 

To  hoard  a  single  relic  !  (kisses  the  glove,  and  then  suddenly  throw* 
it  away)  No  ! — 'Tis  sinful!  [Exit  Bragelone  into  chateau. 

SCENE  III. — The  exterior  of  the  Gothic  Convent  of  the  Carmelites — The 
windows  illnmhied — Music  heard  from  within.  Enter  Coprtiecs 
Ladiks,  Puiests,  etc.  R.  1  E..  and  v.  1  e  ,  and  pass  through  the  door  of 
the  chapel,  in  the  centre  of  the  building. 

Enter  Lapzpn,  l.Ie.,  Grammont,  R.  1  E. 

Lap.    Where  hast  thou  left  the  king  ? 

Gbam.  Not  one  league  hence. 

Lap.     Ere  the  clock  strikes,  La  Valliere  takes  the  veil. 
Guam.  Great  Heaven  ! — so  soon  ! — and  Louis  sent  me  on 

To  learn  how  thou  hadst  prosper'd  with  the  duchess. 

He  is  so  sanguine — this  imperious  king, 


ACT  V.  j  THE  DUCHESS   DE   I*A   VALEIERE.  63 

Who  never  heard  a  "  No  "  from  living  lips  ! 
How  did  she  taUe  his  letter  1 
Lau.  In  sad  silence  ; 

Then  mused  a  little  while,  and  some  few  tears 

Stole  down  her  cheeks,  as,  with  a  trembling  hand, 

She  gave  me  back  the  scroll. 
Gram.  You  mean  her  answer. 

Lau.    No  ;  the  king's  letter.     "  Tell  him  that  I  thank  him  ;  " 

(Such  were  her  words  ; )  "  but  that  my  choice  is  made  ; 

And  e'en  this  last  assurance  of  his  love 

I  dare  not  keep  ;   'tis  only  when  I  pray, 

That  I  may  think  of  him.     This  is  my  answer." 
Gram.  No  more  1 — no  written  word  1 
Lau.  None,  Grammont.     Then 

She  rose  and  left  me  ;  and  I  heard  the  bell 

Calling  the  world  to  see  a  woman  scorn  it. 
Gram.  The  king  will  never  brook  it.     He  will  grasp  her 

Back  from  this  yawning  tomb  of  living  souls. 

The  news  came  on  him  with  such  sudden  shock; 

The  long  noviciate  thus  abridged  !  and  she — 

Ever  so  waxen  to  his  wayward  will ! — 

She  cannot  yet  be  marble. 
Lau.  Wrong'd  affection 

Makes  many  a  Niobe  from  tears.     Haste,  Grammont, 

Back  to  the  king,  and  bid  him  fly  to  save, 

Or  nerve  his  heart  to  lose,  her.     I  will  follow, — 

My  second  charge  fulflll'd. 
Gram.  And  what  is  that  ? 

Lau.    Revenge  and  justice! — Go  !  [Exit  Grammont,  r.  1  e. 

(looking  through  the  doors)         I  hear  her  laugh — 

I  catch  the  glitter  of  her  festive  robe ! 

Athene  comes  to  triumph — and  to  tremble  ! 

Madame  de  Montespan  and  Courtiers  enter,  l.  1  e.     The  Courtiers 
go  into  the  convent. 

Mme.  de  Mon.  (aside).  Now  for  the  crowning  cup  of  sparkling  fortune  ! 

A  rarer  pearl  than  Egypt's  queen  dissolved 

1  have  immersed  in  that  delicious  draught, 

A  woman's  triumph  o'er  a  fairer  rival !  (as  she  turns  to  enter  the 
convent  she  perceives  Lauzun) 

What !  you  here,  duke  ! 
Lau.  Ay,  madame  ;  I've  not  yet 

To  thank  you  for — my  banishment ! 
Mme.  de  Mon.  The  Ides 

Of  March  are  come — not  over ! 
Lau.  Are  they  notl 

For  some  they  may  be  !     You  are  here  to  witness 

Mme.  de  Mon.  My  triumph  ! 

Lau.  And  to  take  a  friend's  condolence. 

I  bear  this  letter  from  the  king  !  (  produces  letter.) 
Mme.  de  Mon.  (taking  it).  The  king  !  (reads  the  letter) 

"We  do  not  blame  you;  blame  belongs  to  love, 

And  love  had  naught  with  you." — What !  what !     1  tremble  ! 

"  The  Duke  de  Lauzun,  of  these  lines  the  bearer, 

Confirms  their  purport:  from  our  royal  court 

We  do  excuse  your  presence."     Banish'd,  duke  ? 


C4  THE   DUCHESS    EE    EA   VALLIKKE.  [ACT  V. 

Is  that  the  word  ?— What,  banisb'd  ! 
Lau.  Hush! — you  mar 

The  holy  silence  of  the  place.     Tis  ti  ue  ; 

You  read  aright.     Our  gracious  king  permits  you 

To  quit  Versailles.     Versailles  is  not  the  world. 
Mme.  de  Mon.  Perdition! — banish'd  ! 
Lau.  You  can  take  the  veil. 

Meanwhile,  enjoy  your  triumph  ! 
Mme.  de  Mon.  Triumph  ! — Ah  ! 

She  tiiumphs  o'er  me  to  the  last.     My  soul 

Finds  hell  on  earth — and  hers  makes  earth  a  heaven  ! 
Lad.    Hist ! — will  you  walk  within? 
Mme.  de  Mon.  0,  hateful  world  ! 

What ! — hath  it  come  to  this  1 
Lau.  You  spoil  your  triumph  ! 

Mme.  de  Mon    Lauzun,  I  thank  thee — thank   thee — thank — and  curse 

thee.  [Exit  Madame  de  Montkspan,  r.  1  e. 

Lau.    (looking  after  her,  with  a  subdued  laugh).  Ha,  ha  ! — the  broken  heart 
can  know  no  pang 

Like  that  which  racks  the  bad  heart  when  its  sting 

Poisons  itself.     Now,  then,  away  to  Louis. 

The  bell  still  tolls  ;   there's  time.     This  soft  La  Valliere  ! 

The  only  thing  that  ever  baffled  Lauzun, 

And  felt  not  his  revenge  ! — revenge,  poor  soul ! 

Revenge  upon  a  dove  ! — she  shall  be  saved 

From  the  pale  mummies  of  yon  Memphian  vault, 

Or  the  great  Louis  will  be  less  than  man — 

Or  that  fond  sinner  will  be  more  than  woman. 

[Exit  Lauzun,  r.  1  e. 

SCENE  IV. — Tlic  interior  of  the  Chapel  of  the  Carmelite  Convent.  On  (he 
foreground,  Courtiers,  Ladies,  etc.  (ail  kneeling  except  the  officials).  At 
the  back  of  the  stage  the  altar,  only  partially  seen  through  the  surrounding 
throng.  Kneeling  at  the  altar  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere,  attended 
by  the  Lady  Abbess  and  Sisters,  etc.  The  officials  pass  to  and  fro, 
swinging  the  censers— The  stage  darkened — Lights  suspended  along  the 
aisle,  and  tapers  b>/  the  altar.  As  the  scene  opens,  solemn  music,  to  which 
is  chaunted  the  following 

HYMN: 

Come  from  the  world,  O  weary  soul. 
For  run  the  race  and  near  the  goal  I 
Flee  from  the  net,  O  lonely  dove, 
Thy  nest  is  built  the  clouds  above  1 
Turn,  wild  and  worn  with  panting  fear, 
And  slake  thy  thirst,  thou  wounded  deer, 
In  Jordan's  holy  springs  1 

Arise  !  O  fearful  soul,  nrise  I 
For  broke  the  chain  and  calm  the  skies ! 
As  moth  fly  upwards  to  the  star, 
The  light  allures  thee  from  afar. 
Though  earth  is  lost,  and  space  is  wide, 
The  smile  of  God  shall  be  thy  guide, 
And  Faith  and  Hope  thy  wings  I 

As  the  Hymn  ends,  Bragelone  enters,  l.  u.  e.,  and  stands  apart  in  the  back- 
ground.    All  rise. 

First  Cour.  Three  minutes  more,  and  earth  has  lost  La  Valliere  ! 


ACT  V.J  THE  DUCHESS  DE  LA  VALLXERE.  65 

Second  Cour.  So  young  ! — so  fair  ! 

Third  Coun.  'Twas  whisper'd  that  the  king 

Would  save  her  yet  ! 
First  Cour.  •  What !  snatch  her  from  the  altar  1 

He  durst  not,  man  ! 

Enter  Louis,  Grammont,  and  Lapzun,  r.  1  e. 

Louis.  Hold  !  we  forbid  the  rites  ! 

All  fall  back  r.  and  l.     As  the  King  advances  hastily  up  the  aisle,  Brage- 
LONE  advances  and  places  himself  before  him. 

Back,  monk  !  revere  the  presence  of  the  king  ! 
Brace.  And  thou  the  palace  of  the  King  of  kings  ! 
Louis.  Dotard  !  we  claim  our  subject. 
Brage.  She  hath  pass'd 

The  limit  of  your  realm.     Ye  priests  of  Heaven, 

Complete  your  solemn  task! — The  church's  curse 

Hangs  on  the  air.     Descendant  of  Saint  Louis, 

Move — and  the  avalanche  falls  ! 

The  Duchess  de  la  Valliere,  dressed  in  the  bridal  and  gorgeous  attire 
assumed  before  the  taking  of  the  veil,  descends  from  the  altar,  and 
advances. 

Duch.  de   la  V.  No,  holy  friend  ! 

I  need  it  not  ;  my  soul  is  my  protector. 

May,  thou  mayst  trust  me. 
Brage.  {after  a  pause).  Thou  art  right. — I  trust  thee  ! 
Louis  [leading  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere  to  the  front  of  the  stage).  Thou 
hast  not  ta'en  the  veil  \ — E'en  Time  had  mercy. 

Thou  art  saved  ! — thou  art  saved  ! — to  love — to  life  ! 
Duch.   de  la  V.  (c).  All,  Sire  I 

Louis  (l.  c).  Call  me  not  Sire  ! — forget  that  dreary  time 

When  thou  wert.  duchess,  and  myself  the  king. 

Fly  back,  fly  back,  to  those  delicious  hours 

When  /  was  but  thy  lover  and  thy  Louis  ! 

And  thou  my  dream— my  bird — my  fairy  flower — 

My  violet,  shrinking  in  the  modest  shade 

Until  transplanted  to  this  breast — to  haunt 

The  common  air  with  odors  !     Oh,  Louise  ! 

Hear  me  ! — the  fickle  lust  of  change  allured  me, 

The  pride  thy  virtues  wounded  arm'd  against  Ihee, 

Until  I  dream'd  I  loved  thyself  no  longer  ; 

But  now  this  dread  resolve,  this  awe  of  parting, 

Re-binds  me  to  thee — bares  my  soul  before  me — 

Dispels  the  lying  mists  that  veil'd  thine  image, 

And  tells  me  that  I  never  loved  but  thee  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  I  am  not  then  despised  ! — thou  lov'st  me  still  I 

And  when  I  pray  for  thee,  my  heart  may  feel 

That  it  hath  nothing  to  forgive  ! 
Louis.  .  Louise ! 

Thou  dost  renounce  this  gloomy  purpose  ? 
Duch.  dr  la  V.  Never  I 

It  is  not  gloomy  ! — think'st  thou  it  is  gloom 

To  feel  thnt,  as  my  soul  becomes  more  pure, 


(,'•,  TIIE   DUCHESS   DE   LA    Y.U.I. I  l-.i:M.  [ACT  V. 

Heaven  will  move  kindly  listen  to  the  prayers 

Tliat  rise  for  thee  ?— is  that  thought  gloom,  my  Louis  1 
Locis.  Oli!  slay  me  not  with  tenderness !     Return! 

And  if  thy  conscience  .startle  at  my  love, 

Be  still  my  friend — my  augel ! 
Ddoh.  de  la  V.  I  a  ii  weak, 

But  in  the  knowledge  of  my  weakness,  Btrong  ! 

I  could  not  breathe  the  air  that's  sweel  with  thee, 

Nor  cease  to  love  ! — in  flight  my  only  safety  ; 

And  were  that  flight  not  made  by  solemn  vows 

Eternal,  it  were  bootless;  for  the  wings 

Of  my  wild  soul  "know  but  two  bournes  to  speed  to — 

Louis  and  heaven  !     And,  ohl   in  heaven  at  last 

My  soul,  ansinning,  may  unite  with  Louis! 
Louis.  I  do  implore  thee  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  No;  thou  canst  not  tempt  me  ! 

My  heart  already  is  tho  nun. 
Louis.  Thou  know'st  not 

I  have  dismissal  thy  rival  from  the  court. 

Return  ! — though  mine  no  more,  at  least  thy  Louis 

Shall  know  no  second  love  1 
Duoh.  r»K  la  V.  What!  wilt  thou,  Louis, 

Renounce  for  me  eternally  my  rival, 

And  live  alone  for 

Louis.  Thee  !  Louise,  I  swear  it ! 

Duch.  de  LA  V.  (raising  her  arms  tj  heaven).  Father!  at  length,  I  dare 
to  hope  for  pardon, 

For  now  remorse  may  prove  itself  sincere  ! 

Bear  witness,  Heaven  !   1  never  loved  this  man 

So  well  as  now  !  and  never  seem'd  hit  love 

Built  on  so  sure  a  rock  !     Upon  thine  altar 

I  lay  the  offering.     I  revoke  the  past  ; 

For  Louis,  heaven  was  left — and  now  I  leave 

Louis,  when  tenfold  more  beloved,  for  heaven  ! 

Ah  !  pray  with  me!     Be  this  our  latest  token— 

This  memory  of  sweet  moments — sweet,  though  sinless! 

Ah  !  pray  with  me!  that  I  may  hive  till  death 

The  thought — "  we  pray'd  together  for  forgiveness  !" 
Louis.  Oh  !  wherefore  never  knew  I  till  this  hour 

The  treasure  I  shall  lose  !     I  dare  not  call  thee 

Back  from  the  heaven  where  thou  art  half  already  ! 

Thy  soul  demands  celestial  destinies, 

And  stoops  no  more  to  earth.     Be  thine  the  peace, 

And  mine  the  penance  !     Yet  these  awful  walls, 

The  rigid  laws  of  this  severest  order, 

Yon  spectral  shapes,  this  human  sepulchre — 

And  thou,  the  soft,  the  delicate,  the  highborn,     ' 

The  adored  delight  of  Europe's  mightiest  king — 

Thou  canst  not  bear  it  ! 
Duch.  de  la  V.  I  have  borne  much  worse — 

Thy  change  and  thy  desertion  ! — Let  it  pass  ! 

There  is  no  terror  in  the  things  without ; 

Our  souls  alone  the  palace  or  the  prisou  ; 

And  the  one  thought  that  I  have  fled  from  sin 

Will  fill  the  cell  with  images  more  glorious, 

And  haunt  its  silence  with  a  mightier  music, 

Than  ever  throng'd  illumined  halls,  or  broke 


ACT  V.J  THE   DUCHESB   DE   LA   VAULIERE.  67 

From  liarps  by  mortal  strung  !    • 
Louis.  I  will  not  hear  thee  ! 

I  cannot  orave  these  thoughts.     Tby  angel  voice 

But  tells  me  what  a  sun  of  heavenly  beauty 

Glides  from  the  earth,  and  leaves  my  soul  to  darkness. 

This  is  my  work  ! — 'twas  I  for  whom  that  soul 

Forsook  its  native  element ;  for  me, 

Sorrow  consumed  thy  youth,  and  conscience  gnawed 

That  patient,  tender,  unreproachful  heart. 

And  now  this  crowns  the  whole  !  the  priest — the  altar — 

The  sacrifice — the  victim !     Touch  me  not ! 

Speak  not!     I  am  unmann'd  enough  already. 

I — I — I  choke  !     These  tears — let  them  speak  for  me. 

Now  !  now  thy  hand — farewell  !  farewell,  forever ! 

[Exit  Louts,  R.  1  B. 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Be    firm,  my  heart,  be  firm !  {after  a  pause,   turning  to 
Bragelone,  who  advances,  c,  with  a  slight  smile) 

'Tis  past !  we've  conquer'd  ! 

The  Duchess  re-ascends  the  altar,  Bragelone  with  head  bent  down  walking 
part  of  the  way  by  her  side,  then  pausing,  l. — the  croivd  close  around  and 
shut  her  out;  during  which  she  puts  on  the  convent  dress.     Music. 


Hark !  to  the  nuptial  train  are  open'd  wide 
The  Eternal  Gates.    Eosanna  to  the  bride  ! 

Gram.  She  has  ta'en  the  veil — the  last  dread  rite  is  done. 
Abbsss  {from  the  altar).  Sister  Louise  !  before  the  eternal  grate 

Becomes  thy  barrier  from  the  living  world, 

It  is  allow'd  thee  once  more  to  behold 

The  face  of  men,  and  bid  farewell  to  friendship. 
Bra  ?e.  {aside).  Why  do  I  shudder  1  why  shrinks  back  my  being 

From  our  last  gaze,  like  Nature  from  the  Grave  1 

One  moment,  and  one  look,  and  o'er  her  image 

Thick  darkness  falls,  till  Death,  that  morning  star, 

Heralds  immortal  day.     I  hear  her  steps 

Treading  the  mournful  silence  ;  o'er  my  soul 

Pauses  the  freezing  time.     0  Lord,  support  me  ! 

One  effort  more — one  effort ! — Wake,  my  soul ! 

Tis  thy  last  trial ;  wilt  thou  play  the  craven  ]  (crosses  towards  l.) 

Th<    crowd  give  way  ;  the  Duchess  de  la  Valliere,  in  the  habit  of  the 
Carmelite  nuns,  passes  down  the  steps  of  the  altar,  led  by  the  Abbess.    As 
she  pauses  to  address  those  whom  she  recognizes  in  the  crowd,  the  chorus 
chaunis : — 

Sister,  look  and  speak  thy  last, 
From  the  world  thou'rt  dying  last ; 
While  iarewell  to  life  thou'rt  giving, 
Dead  already  to  the  living. 

Duch.  de  la  V.  [coming  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  sees  Lauzun,  r.).  Lauzun ! 
thou  serv'st  a  king,  vvhate'er  his  fault, 
Who  merits  all  thy  homage  ;  honor — love  him. 
His  glory  needs  no  friendship  ;  but  in  sickness 
Or  sorrow  Icings  need  love.     Be  faithful,  Lauzun  ! 
And,  far  from  thy  loud  world,  one  lowly  voice 
Shall  not  forget  thee. 


68 


THE   JL>UCHESS   DE   LA   VALLIEKE. 


[ACT  V. 


Brage.   (c.  l. — aside).  All  the  strife  is  hush'd  ! 

My  heart's  wild  sea  lies  mute ! 
Duch.  de   LA  V.    (approaching  Bragelone,  and  kneeling   to  him).    Now! 
friend  and  father, 

Bless  the  poor  nun  ! 
Bragk.  As  Duchess  of  La  Valliere 

Tliou  wert  not  happy  ;  as  the  Carmelite  Sister, 

Say — art  thou  happy  1 
Duch.  de  la  V.  Yes  ! 

Brage.  (laying  his  hand  on  her  head).  0  Father,  bless  her  I 

CHORUS. 

Hark  !  in  heaven  is  mirth  I 

Jubilate  I 
Grief  leaves  guilt  on  earth  ! 

Jubilate ! 
Joy  for  sin  forgiven  ! 

Jubilate  1 
Come,  O  Bride  of  Heaven  ! 

Jubilate  ! 

{Curtain  fails  slowly.) 


EXPLANATION  OF  THE  STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 
The  Actor  is  supposed  to  face  the  Audience. 


SCENE. 


B.3r 


8.2  s. 

/ 


B.  O.  0. 

ATJDIENCE. 


\ 


\ 


L.2E, 


liB. 


l.  Left. 

l.  c.  Left  Centre. 

l.  1  e.  Left  First  Entrance. 

l.  2  e.  Left  Second  Entrance. 

l.  3  e.  Left  Third  Entrance. 

L.  v.  e.  Left  Upper  Entrance 

(wherever  thi3  Scene  may  be.) 

o.  l.  c.  Door  Left  Centre. 


c.  Centre. 
e.  Eight. 

r.  1  e.  Eight  First  Entrance. 

r.  2  e.  Right  Second  Entrance. 

r.  3  E.  Eight  Third  Entrance. 

b.  u.  e.  Eight  Upper  Entrance, 

d.  r.  c-  Door  Right  Centre. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


JTHIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


Series  9482 


Mi 


wm, 


fc: 


